II 


•:.  byWenurmh-tb   • 


i 


, 


THE 


POEMS 


JOHN   G.  C.  BRAINARD 


NEW  AND  AUTHENTIC  COLLECTION, 


WITH  AN  ORIGINAL 


MEMOIR  OF  HIS  LIFE. 


HARTFORD: 

EDWARD    HOPKINS. 

MDCCCXLII. 


I'S 


IB 


MA'Ai 

I   i  M  '  J  v 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1311,  by 

EDWARD   HOPKINS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  Ihe  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Connecticut. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

T  El  O  M  A  S    G .    WELLS, 
PRINtEft    TO    THU    UN1VE11SITY. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  first  edition  of  the  poems  of  Brainard  appeared  during 
the  lifetime  of  the  author,  (1825;)  and  embraced  nearly  one 
half  of  the  poetry  contained  in  the  present  volume.  That 
edition  was  revised  by  him ;  and,  as  some  of  the  lines  differ 
materially  from  the  copy  originally  published  in  the  Connecti 
cut  Mirror,  it  may  be  interesting  to  those  familiar  with  his 
writings  to  compare  them.  A  few  of  these  alterations  will  be 
found  in  the  addenda,  and  a  single  instance  may  be  noticed,  in 
comparing  the  facsimile  in  this  volume  with  the  revised  copy. 

A  second  edition  was  published  in  1832,  and  an  addition  was 
made  to  the  contents  of  the  previous  one  of  about  fifty  pieces, 
which  had  appeared  chiefly  in  the  Mirror  after  the  Spring  of 
1825.  The  mechanical  execution  and  general  appearance  of 
that  volume  were  unfavorable ;  and  in  these  respects  it  was 
not  congenial  to  the  tastes  of  the  lovers  of  poetry  generally, 
or  satisfactory  to  the  numerous  friends  of  the  bard.  It  was 
also,  for  the  most  part,  printed  in  the  absence  of  the  publisher, 
a  fact  which  may  account  for  many  of  the  numerous  errors, 
chiefly  in  orthography  and  punctuation,  which  often  marred 
the  beauties,  and  obscured  the  sentiment  of  the  poet.  Beside 
these  faults,  the  volume  contained  several  pieces  which,  it  is 
ascertained,  were  not  the  productions  of  the  muse  of  Brainard. 
Among  these  were  the  pieces  entitled,  "  The  Young  Widow," 
"O  well  I  love  thee,  native  Land,"  "To  the  Moon,  a  Frag 
ment,"  "  Good  Night,"  "  The  Girl  I  love,"  "To  an  antique 
Female  Bust,"  and  "To  mine  Old  Plaid  Cloak."  All  these 
pieces  are  from  the  pens  of  gentlemen  better  known  in  other 
walks  than  those  of  poesy ;  yet  there  is  in  them  so  much  of 
poetic  excellence,  and  of  affinity  with  Brainard,  that  in  their 
former  association  with  his  poetry  they  harmonized  finely- 
They  both  gave  and  received  beauty  in  their  contact  —  a  fact 


26946G 


iv  ADVERTISEMENT. 

highly  complimentary,  both  to  our  poet  and  to  the  authors  of 
these  now  u  rejected  pieces  "5  the  last  of  which,  especially, 
though  by  a  different  author,  is  characteristic  not  only  of 
Brainard,  but  also  of  his  "  Old  Plaid  Cloak." 

During  the  preparation  of  the  present  volume  for  the  press, 
exertions  made  to  discover  any  unpublished  poetry  of  the  au 
thor  have  availed  but  little  ;  this  is  the  less  surprising,  when 
it  is  considered  that  probably  every  occasional  production  of 
his  found  its  way,  almost  immediately,  into  the  columns  of  a 
newspaper.  One  or  two  pieces,  however,  with  a  few  others 
from  the  files  of  the  Mirror,  are  now  first  published  in  a  col 
lection  of  his  poetry.  The  arrangement  by  the  author  of  the 
first  half  of  the  poems  —  that  published  under  his  supervision 
and  ending  with  "  The  Two  Comets,"  is  retained  in  the  pres 
ent  edition,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  of  the  pieces 
above  referred  to,  and  the  opening  poem,  "  On  Connecticut 
River  "  ;  —  and  those  which  follow  "  The  Two  Comets  "  ap 
pear,  generally,  in  the  order  in  which  they  were  originally 
published  in  the  Mirror.  The  poem  addressed  to  Charity, 
was  the  last  contribution  of  Brainard  to  the  columns  of  that 
paper;  and  as  it  was  intended  for,  and  appeared  as  the  "  New- 
Year's  Verses"  for  1828,  the  author  gave  it  the  quaint  title  of 
"Thoughts  of  Mr.  Eli  Shepard,  Carrier  of  the  Connecticut 
Mirror,  on  Charity."  The  errors  in  the  former  edition,  before 
adverted  to,  have  been  corrected  in  the  present  one  ;  and 
every  effort  has  been  made  to  present  to  the  reader  a  com 
plete  and  correct  edition  of  the  poetry  of  Brainard,  and  in  a 
dress  appropriate  and  becoming  to  his  muse.  A  new  Memoir 
of  the  author,  more  extended  and  fuller  than  any  which  has 
preceded  it,  has  been  prepared  expressly  for  this  edition  ;  and 
the  portrait;  although  from  an  unfinished  pencil  sketch,  by 
Wentworth,  (the  only  one  known  to  have  been  taken  of 
Brainard,)  with  the  facsimile  of  his  writing,  it  is  believed  will 
be  favorably  appreciated  and  valued  by  those  who  were  fa 
miliar  with  the  poet,  and  by  the  admirers  of  his  genius. 

THE  PUBLISHER. 


CONTENTS. 


MEMOIR P- 


POEMS  TRIBUTARY  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  BRAINARD. 

Monody  on  the  Poet  Brainard Ixi 

To  the  Memory  of  J.  G.  C.  Brainard Ixii 

Farewell  to  Brainard Ixiii 


BRAINARD'S   POEMS. 

On  Connecticut  River 3 

The  Fall  of  Niagara 10 

Matchit  Moodus       H 

On  the  Death  of  Commodore  Oliver  H.  Perry       ...  16 

A  Mariner's  Song 18 

Epithalamium '" 

Introduction  to  a  Lady's  Album 20 

The  Shad  Spirit 21 

The  Tree  Toad 23 

Spring.     To  Miss 25 

On  the  Birthday  of  Washington 26 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Late  Occurrence 28 

On  a  Late  Loss 30 

On  the  Death  of  Rev.  Levi  Parsons 31 

On  the  Project  of  African  Colonization 32 


'i  CONTENTS. 

To  the  Marquis  La  Fayette 33 

Maniac's  Song 35 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown  .     .     .     .  3G 

Lord  Exmouth's  Victory  at  Algiers.     1816       ....  38 

Written  for  a  Lady's  Commonplace  Book 41 

The  Lost  Pleiad.     To  my  Friend  G 43 

The  Alligator 44 

The  Sea  Gull 45 

The  Captain.     A  Fragment 47 

Leather  Stocking 49 

Extracts  from  Verses  written  for  the  New- Year,  1823  .  51 

The  Newport  Tower 55 

The  Thunder  Storm 58 

To  a  Missionary,  who  attended  the  late  Meeting  of  the 

Bible  Society  at  New  York 60 

The  Robber 61 

Sonnet  to  the  Sea-Serpent 63 

"  Acs  Alienum  " 64 

The  Guerrilla 65 

Jack  Frost  and  the  Caty-did 67 

Mr.  Merry's  Lament  for  "  Long  Tom  " 69 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Woodward,  at  Edinburgh    ...  71 

To  the  Dead 72 

The  Deep 74 

The  Good  Samaritan 75 

The  Nosegay 77 

The  String  around  my  Finger 78 

Salmon  River 80 

The  Black  Fox  of  Salmon  River i     .     .  82 

One  that  's  on  the  Sea 85 

Presidential  Cotillion 87 


CONTENTS.  vii 

Scire  Facias.  The  Bar  versus  The  Docket  ....  89 

Jerusalem 92 

Tsaiah,  Chapter  xxxv 96 

The  Indian  Summer 97 

Written  for  an  Album 98 

On  the  Loss  of  a  Pious  Friend 99 

The  Two  Comets 101 

To  a  young  Friend  learning  to  Play  the  Flute  .  .  .  103 

Extracts  from  New-Year's  Verses  for  1825  ....  104 

The  Dog- Watch 107 

Sonnet.  To  a  Lady  on  the  Death  of  Mrs. .  108 

Sketch  of  an  Occurrence  on  Board  a  Brig  ....  109 

Stanzas.  "  The  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest  walk"  .  114 

Revery 115 

New-Year's  Verses.  For  the  Carrier  of  the  Mirror. 

1826 117 

To  a  Deaf  and  Dumb  Lady 122 

An  Evening  Cloud 124 

On  the  Death  of  Alexander,  Emperor  of  the  Russias, 

at  Taganrok 125 

Snow  in  April 127 

To  a  Lady  who  had  Lost  a  Relative 128 

The  Mocking-Bird  129 

The  Sweetbrier 130 

Song  — If  I  could  Love 131 

Qui  Transtulit  Sustinet 132 

Dirge.  On  the  Death  of  Adams  and  Jefferson  ...  133 

To  a  Lady  for  a  Nosegay 134 

"  Stifled  with  Sweets  » 135 

A  Rainy  Day 136 

Sonnet.  To .  137 


•Hi  CONTENTS. 

To  the  Moon 138 

The  Grave -Yard 139 

The  Sea-Bird's  Song 140 

Stanzas.     "  On  the  lake  of  young  life  " 141 

Hymn  for  the  Anniversary  of  the  Hartford   County 

Agricultural  Society.     1826 144 

Stanzas.     "  My  hopes  were  as  bright  as  the  bow  "  .     .  145 

To  a  Child,  the  Daughter  of  a  Friend 147 

The  Invalid  on  the  East  End  of  Long  Island      ...  148 

How  to  catch  a  Black-Fish 151 

The  Storm  of  War 153 

The  Money  Diggers 155 

The  Gnome  and  the  Paddock 158 

Song.    "The  rocks,  the  rocks,  among  the  rocks"  .     .  160 

On  the  Death  of  an  Old  Townsman 161 

Stanzas.     '•  How  well  I  remember" 162 

"  Is  it  Fancy,  or  is  it  Fact  ?  " 163 

On  a  Rainbow  at  Night 164 

To  a  Friend  in  the  Navy,  sick  at  Home 166 

The  Smack  Race 168 

The  Foot 170 

Fort  Griswold,  September  6,  1781 172 

Stanza.     "  I  know  a  brook" 175 

The  Drowned  Boy 176 

The  Widower 177 

Saturday  Night  at  Sea 178 

Epistle  from  an  Absent  Editor 182 

An  Invocation 185 

Charity 186 


ADDENDA 187 


MEMOIR. 


MEMOIR. 


THE  birthplace  of  John  Gardner  Calkins  Brainard 
was  New  London,  in  Connecticut.  From  the  period 
of  his  birth,  which  occurred  October  2Jst,  1796,  to  the 
year  of  his  entrance  into  college,  his  time  was  spent 
under  the  roof  of  his  father,  the  Hon.  Jeremiah  G. 
Brainard,  formerly  a  judge  of  the  Superior  Court  in 
that  State.  Here  he  received  that  early  culture  in 
mind  and  disposition,  the  happy  development  of  which 
since,  has  imparted  so  much  pleasure  to  the  reading 
community.  Those  habits  of  good-nature,  modesty, 
and  sociableness,  as  also  those  poetic  tastes  and  sensi 
bilities,  by  which  he  became  distinguished,  were  doubt 
less  nurtured  by  his  favorable  circumstances,  during 
that  important  period  of  life.  Having  finished  his  pre 
paratory  studies  under  the  direction  of  an  elder  broth 
er,  he  entered  Yale  College  in  1811.  He  is  described 
by  those  who  knew  him  then,  as  not  having  made  such 
efforts  in  the  character  of  a  student,  as  might  have 


xii  MEMOIR 

been  expected  from  his  evident  genius  and  capacity. 
Whether  this  fact  had  its  foundation  in  a  native  inac 
tivity  of  body  and  mind,  in  too  humble  an  appreciation 
of  his  powers,  or  in  the  generous  sensibility  which 
cannot  inflict  pain  on  a  rival,  it  is  difficult  to  determine. 
Probably  these  several  circumstances  had  each  its  influ 
ence.  The  regard  which  was  entertained  by  his  fel 
low  students  for  his  superior  intellect, — his  beautiful 
genius, — doubtless  became  the  more  enhanced,  on 
this  account.  Neither  envy,  nor  the  dread  of  rivalry, 
forbade  the  admiration  of  talent  which  interfered  not 
with  the  honors  of  others,  but  was  contented  with  its 
own  manifestations,  in  its  own  way.  That  which  he 
possessed  of  the  mens  divinior,  was  calmly  and  unosten 
tatiously  evolved  on  every  occasion.  It  acquired  char 
acter  and  consistency  by  degrees,  and  resembled  the 
flowing  of  his  own  Connecticut,  noiseless  and  placid 
and  full,  rather  than  the  leaping  and  foaming  of  a  cat 
aract.  His  social  and  convivial  qualities,  equally  with 
the  gifts  of  intellect,  drew  forth  the  strong  regards  of 
his  more  particular  acquaintance  in  the  college,  and  he 
met  them  with  the  smile  and  the  repartee,  — with  the 
playful  jest  and  mimic  fun,  which  are  so  easily  toler 
ated  in  the  gayer  intercourse  of  friends,  and  which,  in 
him,  never  gave  offence.  The  possession  of  feelings 


OF  BRAINARD.  xiii 

of  this  kind  was  not,  however,  incompatible  with  a 
tinge  of  thoughtful  and  almost  depressing  pensiveness, 
which  was  sometimes  observed  to  steal  over  his  fea 
tures. 

Brainard  graduated  in  1815,  and  on  his  return  to  his 
native  place,  commenced  the  study  of  law,  in  the  office 
of  his  brother,  William  F.  Brainard,  Esq.  On  the 
completion  of  his  professional  course  and  admission  to 
the  Bar,  he  removed  to  the  city  of  Middletown,  with  a 
view  to  the  practice  of  law.  This  was  in  1819,  but  in 
the  earlier  part  of  the  year  1822,  we  find  him  in  the 
city  of  Hartford,  engaged  in  the  duties  of  an  editor  of 
a  weekly  paper,  the  "  Connecticut  Mirror."*  His  ca 
reer  in  the  profession  he  had  first  chosen  was,  there 
fore,  short.  He  seems  neither  to  have  been  fitted  for 
the  law,  nor  the  law  for  him.  The  dreams  of  fancy 
filled  his  soul,  when  he  should  have  been  adding  to 
the  mass  of  his  legal  learning.  He  beckoned  to  the 
muses,  when  he  should  have  secured  a  client.  He 
cherished  an  over-wrought  sensibility,  when  he  should 
have  ventured  the  asperity  of  the  world's  men  and  the 
world's  ways.  In  short  he  considered  himself  as  pos 
sessing  "  a  temperament,"  to  use  his  own  words, 

*  These  duties  commenced  on  the  25th  of  February. 


xiv  MEMOIR 

"  much  too  sensitive  for  his  own  comfort,  which  ex 
posed  him  to  personal  altercation,  contradiction,  and 
that  sharp  collision  which  tries  and  strengthens  the 
passions  of  the  heart,  at  least  as  much  as  it  does  the 
faculties  of  the  mind."  We  can  scarcely  wonder, 
then,  that  he  was  not  destined  to  excel  in  a  calling, 
which  requires  a  hardy  cast  of  character,  and  which 
leads  into  those  paths  of  strife,  ambition,  and  political 
distinction,  so  abhorred  by  the  fond  poetic  enthusiast. 
With  whatever  gifts  of  intellect  he  was  endowed,  and 
however  he  might  have  excelled  in  his  profession,  had 
he  applied  all  his  powers  to  it ;  still  it  was  not  the  call 
ing  he  loved,  and  he  had  no  disposition  to  make  the 
required  application.  Judging  by  the  event,  he  was 
destined  to  become  eminent  in  another  walk  of  life. 
The  temperaments  and  the  tastes  of  men  are  originally 
different,  one  from  another.  God  has  made  them,  by 
their  mental  and  physical  structure,  for  particular 
spheres  of  exertion,  thus  giving  a  beautiful  variety  to 
human  existence,  and  to  the  pursuits  of  men.  Some 
are  formed  to  occupy  one  department  of  his  earthly 
providence,  and  others  an  entirely  different  one.  Cow- 
per  could  no  more  be  a  lawyer  or  public  man,  when  he 
was  made  and  preconfigurcd  for  a  poet,  than  the  indi 
vidual  we  once  heard  of  was  destined  to  be  a  poet, 


OF  BRAINARD.  xv 

who  was  able  to  compose  but  a  single  couplet  in  all  his 
life,  and  that  only  in  the  unconscious  hours  of  sleep. 
Let  not  then  the  providence  of  God  be  arraigned,  by 
which  each  one  will 

"fall 

Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordained  to  fill." 

The  direction  of  Brainard's  genius  appeared  in  the 
poetic  creations  which  he  was  meditating,  during  his 
residence  in  Middletown.  These  resulted  in  several  of 
his  smaller  printed  poems.  He  also  prepared,  at  the 
same  period,  several  pieces  for  a  literary  paper,  con 
ducted  by  Cornelius  Tuthill,  Esq.,  one  of  the  earlier 
editors  of  the  "  Christian  Spectator."  The  paper  was 
published  at  New  Haven,  and  called  "The  Micro 
scope."  The  humorous  story  of  Gabriel  Gap,  in  that 
publication,  was  from  the  pen  of  Brainard,  though  he 
left  it  unfinished. 

The  profession  of  law  was  thus  abandoned  for  the 
no  less  trying,  and  far  more  precarious  career,  of  the 
literary  adventurer.  But  the  latter  was  the  pursuit  of 
his  choice,  and  though  he  seemed  not  to  have  any 
brilliant  anticipations  at  the  commencement,  he  attain" 
ed  to  a  distinction  which  only  sterling  talents  could 
have  commanded.  For  a  portion  of  his  task  as  an 
editor  of  a  weekly  newspaper,  it  has  been  supposed 


xvi  MEMOIR 

that  neither  his  temper,  nor  his  training,  was  fitted. 
It  is  true  that  he  had  no  fondness  for  political  asperity 
and  wrangling.     For  such  times  he  was  not  born,  un 
less  possibly  to  allay  them,  by  his  pacific  and  candid 
spirit.     He  could  not  with  comfort  to  himself  mingle 
in  the  din  of  such  a  controversy.     But  it  may  well  be 
questioned,  whether   too  slight  an   estimate   has  not 
sometimes  been  put  upon  his  capacity,  to  conduct  the 
editorial  department  of  such  a  journal  as  he  undertook, 
even  in  its  political  discussions.     The  character  of  the 
matter  which  actually  appeared  in  "  The  Mirror,"  is 
not,  in  every  case,  the  true  test  of  his  ability.     He  was 
capable  of  greater  originality  of  thought,  and  compre 
hensiveness  of  views,  on  the  topics  alluded  to,  than  the 
first  naked  aspect  of  things  would  indicate.     We  are 
assured  by  competent  testimony,  that  labored  and  able 
political  articles  were  withheld  from  publication,  owing 
to  causes  over  which  he  had  little  control.     It  is  not, 
perhaps,  necessary  to  detail  the  facts,  but  they  certain 
ly  go  far  to  exculpate  him  from  the  charge   of  levity, 
or  weakness,  in  conducting  the  editorial  department  of 
his  paper.     Prudential  considerations  were  suffered  to 
have  sway,  at  the  expense  of  his  reputation  for  politi 
cal  tact  and  foresight.     The  only  substitutes  for  the 
articles  referred  to,  were  such  brief  and  tame  pieces  as 


OF  BRAINARD.  xvii 

he  could  prepare,  after  the  best  and  almost  only  hours 
for  composition  had  passed  by.  This  circumstance, 
together  with  the  consciousness  that  the  paper  was  ill 
sustained  in  respect  to  its  patronage,  was  sufficiently 
discouraging  to  a  person,  whose  sensibilities  were  as 
acute  as  those  of  Brainard's.  It  accounts  also  for  the 
frequent  turns  of  mental  depression  which  marked  his 
latter  years,  —  heightened,  indeed,  by  that  frequent 
and  mortifying  concomitant  of  genius,  —  slender  pecu 
niary  means. 

In  whatever  pertained  to  the  literary  portion  of  his 
paper,  he  was  certainly  at  home.  Hence  his  notices 
of  new  works  were  interesting  and  able.  He  possess 
ed  the  urbanity  and  frankness  to  give  utterance  to  his 
sense  of  intellectual  beauty,  whenever  he  perceived 
any  traces  of  it  in  the  authors  on  whom  he  commented. 
In  the  language  of  Mr.  Whittier,  who  appreciated  his 
character  in  this  particular,  with  the  kindred  temper 
of  a  poet  and  a  philanthropist:  "  there  was  too  much 
gentleness  in  his  nature,  too  much  charity  for  the  of 
fending,  and  too  much  modesty  in  his  own  pretensions, 
to  allow  any  rudeness  of  criticism,  or  severity  of  cen 
sure.  His  writings  in  the  "  Connecticut  Mirror,"  are 
uniformly  gentlemanly  and  good  natured.  It  is  im 
possible  to  discover  in  them  any  thing  like  malice  or 

b 


xviii  MEMOIR 

wantonness  of  satire.  He  was  the  first  to  award  due 
praise  to  his  literary  brethren.  His  criticisms  were 
those  of  a  man  willing  to  lend  his  fine  ear  to  the  har 
monies  of  poetry,  and  his  clear,  healthful  eye  to  the 
light  of  intellectual  beauty,  wherever  these  were  to  be 
seen  or  heard. 

Of  his  poetic  pieces  in  "  The  Mirror,"  there  was 
but  one  opinion.  They  were  well  received,  and  de 
served  the  tribute  of  praise  which  was  accorded  by 
many  a  reader.  The  reputation  which  he  earned  was 
not,  however,  instantaneous.  He  at  first  became  a 
favorite  in  a  circle  of  friends,  and  by  them  his  talents 
were  known  and  somewhat  appreciated.  Still,  the 
impression  which  he  was  calculated  to  make  on  their 
minds,  was  not  fully  felt,  until  certain  poems  of  a  su 
perior  order  came  out.  The  lines  "  On  the  birthday 
of  Washington,"  beginning 

(l  Behold  the  mossed  cornered-stone  dropped  from  the  wall  " 
and  some  others,  burst  on  their  view,  like  brilliant 
meteors,  surprising  and  enchanting  them.  After  this, 
it  was  not  long  before  he  was  honored  by  the  literary 
part  of  the  community  generally,  and  by  all  who 
took  an  interest  in  the  productions  of  native  genius  ; 
and  every  number  of"  The  Mirror"  was  seized  with 
avidity  by  men,  women,  and  children,  to  see  if  it  con- 


OF  BRAINARD.  xix 

tained  any  of  Brainard's  poetry.  It  is  on  these  poetic 
effusions  that  his  claims  to  the  regard  of  future  times 
will  principally  rest.  For  however  happy  he  may 
have  been  in  several  of  his  prose  compositions,  the 
public  know  him  mostly  as  a  poet,  and  in  that  light 
will  he  here  be  chiefly  viewed.  The  few  criticisms 
which  we  shall  attempt  in  respect  to  his  poetry  will 
appear  in  the  sequel.  In  this  part  of  our  task,  our 
only  design  was  to  present  the  few  incidents  of  his  life, 
and  sketch  the  striking  points  of  his  general  character. 
We  have  already  seen  Brainard  in  the  commence 
ment  of  his  literary  career,  as  an  editor,  and  as  a  wri 
ter  of  poetry.  Short  as  that  career  was,  extending 
only  to  six  years,  it  was  nevertheless  important  to  his 
own  fame,  and  to  his  country's  intellectual  wealth. 
He  seems  to  have  availed  himself  of  his  opportunities 
for  observation  to  good  effect,  and  was  not  unversed  in 
the  learning  of  books.  He  culled  every  variety  of 
sweet  that  lay  in  his  path,  and  looked  on  nature  and 
man,  with  the  eye  of  a  poet,  and  to  subserve  a  poet's 
purposes.  All  our  real  bards,  men  renowned  in  song, 
have  proved  themselves  to  be  men  of  knowledge. 
Those  undying  forms  of  thought  which  they  put  forth, 
are  the  products  of  capacious,  well-stored,  far-reaching 
intellects.  They  may  not  be  all  scholars,  in  the  rigid 


xx  MEMOIR 

and  collegiate  sense  of  the  word,  but  they  are  men  of 
information  and  intellectual  power.  That  which  they 
write  is  stamped  with  the  seal  of  truth  and  adherence 
to  nature,  and  shows  the  vestiges  of  study  and  research 
of  some  kind.  Thus  Brainard  had  his  rich  intellectual 
acquisitions  ;  but  they  were  not  gathered  in  the  ordi 
nary  way  of  the  student,  ever  bending  over  his  books, 
and  observing  nightly  vigils.  He  was  "  one  of  those 
men,  who,"  as  a  friend  that  well  knew  him  remarked, 
"love  to  lie  on  their  backs,  and  see  what  they  can 
think"  Brainard  acquired  his  rich  and  beautiful  in 
tellectual  stores  somewhat  in  this  manner.  And  he 
had  frequent  occasion  to  lay  them  under  contribution, 
in  the  preparation  of  poems  for  his  paper.  These 
pieces,  as  already  remarked,  were  eagerly  read,  and 
highly  commended.  They  established  his  fame  as  a 
poet,  and  drew  him  forth  from  the  retirement  which 
he  seemed  to  love  so  well.  Praise,  however,  appar 
ently  excites  no  emotions  of  vanity  in  his  bosom,  and 
he  ever  retired  thither  for  the  sweetest  solace  he  found 
or  desired  on  earth.  Several  of  the  pieces,  however, 
as  they  were  composed  in  the  hurry,  and  under  the 
embarrassments  incident  to  his  profession  as  an  editor, 
received  less  care  and  polish  than  should  have  been 
bestowed  upon  them,  but  they  all  showed  a  ready  and 


OF  BRAINARD.  xxi 

skilful  hand,  and  that  only  leisure  was  wanting  to  their 
perfection.  Negligence,  in  some  instances,  was  bat 
too  natural  under  these  circumstances,  and  taste  could 
not  always  be  consulted  or  indulged. 

Three  years  sufficed  to  furnish  a  small  volume  of 
the  poetry  thus  contributed  to  "  The  Mirror,"  or  that 
remained  by  him  unprinted.  It  was  published  early 
in  the  year  1825.  It  was  accompanied  by  a  very  brief 
and  unpretending  introduction,  and  left  to  find  its  way 
by  its  own  merits,  into  the  hearts  and  minds  of  his 
countrymen.*  The  naivete  with  which  it  was  commit- 

*  The  Introduction  to  the  volume  was  as  follows  :  —  "  The 
author  of  the  following  pieces  has  been  induced  to  publish 
them  in  a  book,  from  considerations  which  cannot  be  interest 
ing  to  the  public.  Many  of  these  little  poems  have  been 
printed  in  the  Connecticut  Mirror ;  and  others  are  just  fit  to 
keep  them  company.  No  apologies  are  made,  and  no  criti 
cisms  deprecated.  The  commonplace  story  of  the  impor 
tunities  of  friends,  though  it  had  its  share  in  the  publication, 
is  not  insisted  upon  j  but  the  vanity  of  the  author,  if  others 
choose  to  call  it  such,  is  a  natural  motive,  and  the  hope  of 
'  making  a  little  something  by  it/  is  an  honest  acknowledg 
ment,  if  it  is  a  poor  excuse."  The  motto  of  the  title-page 
was  as  quaint,  — 

"  Some  said,  '  John  print  it  ; '  others  said  '  Not  so  ; ' 
Some  said  '  It  might  do  good  5 '  others  said  '  No.'  " 
Bumjan's  Apology. 


xxii  MEMOIR 

ted  to  their  attention,  was  answered  by  a  generous  and 
general  approval  of  its  contents.  Our  ablest  periodi 
cal  literature,  in  one  instance  at  least,*  spoke  in  tones 
of  approbation  and  encouragement,  stating,  however, 
such  exceptions  to  their  general  good  opinion,  as  judi 
cious  criticism  is  always  expected  to  put  forth.  No 
other  literary  effort  followed  the  preparation  of  this 
volume,  except  other  fugitive  pieces,  which,  together 
with  the  former,  were  collected  in  a  volume  published 
in  1832,  by  Mr.  Goodsell. 

But  the  voice  of  the  bard  was  destined  ere  long  to 
be  hushed  in  the  silence  of  death.  Prematurely  was 
he  called  (we  speak  with  deference  to  the  divine  ar 
rangements,)  to  resign  life  with  all  its  sweets  and  its 
fame,  into  the  hand  of  the  Giver.  His  health  had 
begun  to  decline  previously  to  the  spring  of  1827,  at 
which  period  he  retired  from  his  professional  labors, 
though  not  with  a  design  to  relinquish  them  finally. 
He  sought  repose  in  his  native  town,  where  the  assi 
duities  of  friendship  and  affection,  so  grateful  in  sick 
ness  and  depression,  were  bestowed  and  enjoyed,  in  a 
high  degree.  But  nothing  could  arrest  the  progress 
of  the  disease  with  which  he  was  visited.  It  proved 

*  North  American  Review. 


OF  BRAINARD.  xxiii 

to  be  consumption,  that  surest  precursor  of  death, 
though  often  slow  in  its  work,  and  flattering  in  its 
symptoms.  Resort  was  had  in  summer  to  a  short  res 
idence  on  Long  Island.  No  material  relief,  however, 
was  afforded  by  the  excursion,  and  he  was  forced  to 
abandon  the  idea  of  returning  to  Hartford,  and  resum 
ing  the  duties  of  editorship.  He  lingered  till  the  26th 
of  September  the  following  year,  (1828,)  when  he 
cheerfully  departed  to  his  rest.  During  this  period  of 
physical  debility  and  decay,  he  exerted,  as  usual,  his 
mental  powers  in  the  composition  of  several  short,  but 
beautiful  poems,  which  were  published  in  "The  Mir 
ror."  The  circumstances  of  his  sickness  and  death 
were  detailed  at  the  time  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  M'Ewen, 
pastor  of  the  church  to  which  Brainard  belonged,  in  a 
letter  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Hawes,  of  Hartford.  We  adopt 
it  from  Mr.  Whittier's  "  Sketch  of  Brainard's  Life"  pre 
fixed  to  Goodsell's  edition  of  his  ''Literary  Remains." 
"  In  my  first  visit  to  him,  two  or  three  months  be 
fore  his  death,  he  said  :  'lam  sick  and  near  death, 
and  I  ought  not  to  be  too  confident  how  I  should  act 
or  feel  had  I  a  prospect  of  health  and  the  worldly 
pleasures  and  prosperity  which  it  would  offer.  But  if 
I  know  myself  I  would,  were  I  well,  devote  my  life 
to  the  service  of  Jesus  Christ.'  I  stated  some  of  the 


xxiv  MEMOIR 

main  doctrines  of  Christianity.  '  These  are  Scripture,' 
he  said,  'they  are  true  and  delightful  to  me.  The 
plan  of  salvation  in  the  Gospel  is  all  that  I  wish  for ;  — 
it  fills  me  with  wonder  and  gratitude ;  and  makes  the 
prospect  of  death  not  only  peaceful  but  joyful.  My 
salvation,'  he  continued, '  is  not  to  be  effected  by  a  pro 
fession  of  religion  ;  but  when  I  read  Christ's  require 
ments,  and  look  round  on  my  friends  and  acquaintan 
ces,  I  cannot  be  content  without  performing  this  public 
duty.'  He  was  propounded,  and  in  due  time,  pale 
and  feeble,  yet  manifestly  with  mental  joy  and  sereni 
ty,  he  came  to  the  house  of  God,  professed  his  faith 
and  was  baptized  and  entered  into  covenant  with  God 
and  his  people.  The  next  Sabbath  the  Lord's  Supper 
was  administered.  It  wras  wet,  and  he  could  not  be 
out.  His  disappointment  was  great.  A  few  friends 
went  to  his  room  and  communed  with  him  there  in  this 
ordinance.  While  his  father's  family  and  others,  dur 
ing  the  scene,  were  dissolved  in  tears,  he  sat  with  dig 
nity  and  composure,  absorbed  in  the  interesting  cere 
mony  in  which  he  was  engaged.  In  my  last  interview 
with  him,  after  he  was,  at  his  own  request,  left  alone 
with  me,  he  said  :  '  I  wish  not  to  be  deceived  about 
my  state,  —  but  I  am  not  in  the  usual  condition  to  try 
myself.  No  one  abuses  a  sick  man,  —  every  thing 


OF   BRAINAID.  xxv 

around  me  is  sympathy  and  kindness.  I  used  to  be 
angry  when  people  spoke  what  was  true  of  me.  1 
have  now  no  resentment.  I  can  forgive  all  and  pray, 
I  think,  for  the  salvation  of  all.  I  am  not  tried  with 
pain.  I  have  hardly  any  outward  trial.'  '  But,'  said 
I,  'you  have  one  great  trial,  —  you  must  soon  part 
with  life  :  '  '  And  I  am  willing,'  he  replied.  '  The 
Gospel  makes  my  prospect  delightful.  God  is  a  God 
of  truth,  and  I  think  I  am  reconciled  to  him.'  I  saw 
him  no  more,  but  was  told  that  he  died  in  peace." 

It  may  be  interesting  to  learn  a  few  other  particu 
lars  respecting  the  poet,  during  his  last  illness.  To 
this  end,  we  are  happy  to  have  it  in  our  power  to  intro 
duce  a  short  account,  furnished  by  a  gentleman  in 
Hartford,  a  friend  and  acquaintance  of  Brainard's,  who 
called  on  him,  eight  or  ten  days  before  the  death  of 
the  latter.  This  gentleman  had  previously  written 
him  during  his  sickness,  and  accompanied  the  letter  by 
a  copy  of  "  Wolfe's  Remains."  We  give  the  account 
as  it  was  detailed  in  conversation. 

"  I  called  at  Judge  Brainard's,  and  on  inquiry  for 
John  was  shown  unannounced  into  his  room,  or  rather 
the  parlour  where  he  was,  —  and  not  expecting  to  find 
him  there.  Of  course  both  parties  were  taken  by  sur 
prise.  Brainard  was  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
dressed  in  his  usual  attire,  and  with  his  hat  on  and  his 


xxvi  MEMOIR 

cane  near  by.  In  his  lap,  was  a  large  old-fashioned 
family  Bible  lying-  open,  in  the  reading  of  which  he 
was  entirely  absorbed,  and  from  which  his  attention 
was  withdrawn  only  by  my  entrance.  Immediately 
after  his  recognition  of  me,  and  the  usual  greeting,  he 
said  '  he  had  received  the  letter  which  I  had  addressed 
to  him,  with  the  accompanying  volume  which  had  been 
to  him  like  a  draught  of  water  to  a  thirsty  man.'  He 
then  almost  immediately  spoke  of  his  religious  views 
and  feelings,  — apologizing  for  his  seeming  abruptness 
in  introducing  the  topic  of  religion,  by  a  reference  to 
his  then  feeble  condition,  (he  could  speak  only  in  a 
whisper,)  and  to  the  opinion  now  entertained  by  him, 
that  this  was  *  the  only  subject.'  Pointing  to  the  Bible, 
he  spoke  of  the  great  comfort  and  support  he  there 
found,  and  with  much  earnestness  expressed  his  confi 
dent  hope,  that  not  only  myself,  but  also  his  other  fa 
miliar  friends  at  Hartford,  would  '  get  right,'  and  de 
rive  from  that  book  the  same  consolation  which  it  now 
afforded  him.  He  said  he  suffered  no  bodily  pain,*  — 
none  worthy  of  a  thought;  — that  he  had  no  apprehen- 


*The  impression  of  the  family  was,  that  he  had,  at  times, 
suffered  much.  If  so,  his  religious  views,  hopes,  and  aspira 
tions  had  probably  rendered  him  superior  to  the  usual  distress 
ing  accompaniments  of  disease. 


OF  JBRAINARD.  xxvii 

sion  of  death,  —  that  he  indeed  longed,  and  was  impa 
tient  to  depart.  In  expressing-  a  wish  for  an  early 
dismissal  from  life,  he  desired  to  avoid  a  sinful  impa 
tience,  —  but  that  the  earliest  time,  so  that  it  was 
God's  time,  would  be  to  him  most  welcome.  I  gath 
ered  from  his  remarks,  that  his  time  was  divided  be 
tween  his  Bible  and  the  thoughts  and  meditations  it 
inspired,  and  the  garden  where  he  occasionally  sat,  and 
breathed  the  fresh  air.  His  sister,  who,  on  my  en 
trance,  had  cautioned  me  not  to  let  her  brother  become 
exhausted  by  too  much  conversation,  here,  for  the 
second  or  third  time,  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  apart 
ment,  with  so  much  anxiety  depicted  on  her  counte 
nance,  that  her  solicitude  could  not  be  mistaken  nor 
disregarded,  notwithstanding  the  earnest  wish  mani 
fested  by  her  brother  (who  now  for  the  first  and  only 
time  spoke  aloud)  that  my  stay  might  be  prolonged. 
Fearing,  therefore,  the  effect  on  him  of  a  longer  inter 
view,  I  here  took  my  leave  ;  and  a  short  week  or  two 
brought  Brainard  the  release  from  life,  which  he  so 
earnestly  desired." 

In  joining  the  church,  as  narrated  by  Mr.  M'Ewen 
above,  it  may  be  added,  as  we  learn,  that  Brainard 
being  too  feeble  to  go  to  church  and  remain  through 
the  ordinary  services,  consequently  arrived  at  and 


xxviii  MEMOIR 

entered  the  sanctuary,  when  these  were  nearly  or 
quite  through.  Every  one  present  (literally,  almost,) 
knew  him,  —  the  occasion  of  his  coming  was  under 
stood, —  and  when  he  appeared,  pale,  feeble,  ema 
ciated,  and  trembling  in  consequence  of  his  extreme 
debility,  the  sensation  it  produced  was  at  once  appar 
ent  throughout  the  whole  assembly.  There  seemed 
to  be  an  instinctive  homage  paid  to  the  grace  of 
God  in  him ;  or  perhaps  the  fact  shows,  how  readily  a 
refined  Christian  community  sympathizes  with  genius 
and  virtue  destined  to  an  early  tomb. 

The  lively  grief  of  the  reading  community,  as  well 
as  of  his  friends  in  particular,  attested  their  sense  of 
the  loss  which  had  been  experienced.  He  had  evi 
dently  been  regarded  with  great  favor,  and  it  was  no 
unnatural  feeling  to  dwell,  with  fond  pensiveness,  on 
the  memory  of  one  who  had  often  contributed  to  their 
serious  and  innocent  gratification.  Thus  he  shone 
among  the 

fe  Bright  forms  we  sorrowing  weep, 
So  fleet  they  passed  away  to  die/' 

and  the  lovers  of  song  had  only  the  mournful  satisfac 
tion  of  expressing  their  regard  for  departed  excel 
lence.  His  death  was  extensively  lamented,  and  many 
felt  that  one  had  fallen  who  had  already  achieved  not 


OF  BRAfNARD.  xxix 

a  little,  and  promised  still  more,  in  his  devotion  to  a 
delightful  art. 

Several  traits  of  Brainard's  character  have  inciden 
tally  appeared  already  ;  but  we  should  do  him  injus 
tice  not  to  give  more  prominence  to  a  few  of  its  fea 
tures.  His  mind,  naturally  tender  and  susceptible  in  a 
high  degree,  was  given  to  pensive  thought;  and  in  his 
riper  years  its  developments  amounted  at  times,  to  mel 
ancholy  and  depression.  Whether  this  is  to  be  attribut 
ed  to  a  cause  which  has  been  publicly  stated, —  a  cause 
which  often  withers  the  affections  of  the  young  heart, 
—  we  know  not.  If  that  cause  existed,  it  was  unknown 
to  his  immediate  relatives.  But  whatever  may  have 
been  the  occasion  of  the  characteristic  we  speak  of, 
the  latter  was  an  acknowledged  reality,  and  even  in 
his  poetry  itself,  the  tones  of  a  deeply  sad  spirit  often 
break  forth.  The  "Edinburgh  Review,"  in  one  in 
stance,  attaches  to  this  character  of  his  poetry,  the 
epithets  of  "melancholy"  and  "wayward,"  and  quotes 
as  an  example,  the  touching  stanzas  beginning  with 
the  line 

"  The  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest  walk." 

A  friend  and  admirer  of  the  poet  remarked  to  us, 
that  he  appeared  as  one,  who,  notwithstanding  the 
frequent  gayety  of  his  strains,  "  was  disposed  to  sport 


xxx  MEMOIR 

with  his  own  feelings."  The  sadness  which  he  felt 
within  could  not  be  better  thrown  off,  or  parried,  than 
by  indulging  in  an  external  gayety.  Still  there  were 
bright  sunny  spots  in  his  life,  an  innocent  joyousness 
was  not  an  entire  stranger  to  his  bosom,  and  even 
immersed,  as  he  often  was,  in  dark  and  sombre 
thoughts,  he  never  became  moody  and  misanthropic. 
In  the  language  of  another,  "  disheartened  and  de 
spondent  as  we  know  Brainard  was,  looking  out  upon 
the  world  with  an  eye  that  saw  every  thing  glowing 
with  prismatic  beauty,  yet  mournfully  feeling  that  this 
beauty  was  not  made  for  him,  —  still,  when  he  met  a 
friend,  the  cloud  passed  instantly  from  his  brow,  a 
smile  was  on  his  lips,  and  words  of  merriment  and 
levity  broke  from  his  tongue.  It  was  apparent  that 
for  the  moment,  he  obtained  relief  from  his  painful 
musings  in  the  play  of  a  humorous  fancy, —  a  laugh 
seemed  to  beguile  his  sorrow,  —  a  joke  to  scare  back 
into  their  recesses,  the  demons  that  preyed  upon  his 
bosom.  Those  only,  who  knew  him  well,  can  under 
stand  how  interesting  was  this  light  of  his  mind, 
breaking  out,  amid  the  clouds  and  darkness  which  en 
compassed  it."  We  may  add  to  the  above,  that  he 
possessed  a  keen  perception  of  the  humorous  and  ri 
diculous,  —  that  he  had  the  art  of  seizing  on  those 


OF  BRAINARD.  xxxi 

points  of  character  in  others,  which  constituted  their 
foibles,  as  well  as  their  excellences,  —  that  his  mode 
of  expression,  like  the  association  of  his  ideas,  was  at 
once  singular  and  engaging,  —  and  hence  on  these 
several  accounts,  he  could  inspire  in  the  minds  of  a 
circle,  emotions  of  mirth  and  gayety,  apparently  the 
most  opposite  to  those,  with  which  his  own  mind  was 
so  frequently  occupied. 

It  is  not  surprising,  then,  that  he  was  eminently 
formed  for  society,  and  the  enjoyment  of  its  innocent 
festivities  and  delights,  notwithstanding  the  retiring 
modesty  and  the  keen  sensitiveness  by  which  he  was 
distinguished.  "  His  habits  of  self-reliance,"  says 
Mr.  Whittier,  "of  a  gentle  retirement  into  the  calm 
beauty  of  his  own  mind,  rendered  him,  in  a  measure, 
indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  the  world.  Yet  he  loved 
society,  —  the  society  of  the  gifted  and  intellectual, — 
and  of  those  who  had  become  accustomed  to  his  pecu 
liarities  of  manner  and  feeling,  who  could  appreciate 
his  merit,  or  relish  his  good-natured  jests,  and  '  mocks, 
and  knaveries,'  and  laugh  with  him  at  what  he  con 
sidered  the  ludicrous  eagerness  of  the  multitude  after 
the  vanities  of  existence.  In  larger  and  mixed  circles, 
his  peculiar  sensitiveness  was  a  frequent  cause  of  un- 
happiness.  Amidst  his  gayety  and  humor,  a  word 


xxxii  MEMOIR 

spoken  inadvertently, — some  unmeaning  gesture, — 
some  casual  inattention  or  unlucky  oversight  checked 
at  once  the  free  flow  of  his  sprightly  conversation,  — 
the  jest  died  upon  his  lips,  —  and  the  melancholy 
which  had  been  lifted  from  his  heart,  fell  again  with 
increased  heaviness." 

There  was  a  quiet  sportiveness  and   humor   about 
Brainard,  which  rendered  him  a  highly  agreeable  com 
panion,  and  threw  a  charm  over  the  circles  in  which  he 
visited.     It  arose  at  times  into  wit  of  a  keen  and  bril 
liant  character.      This,  his  writings  also   sufficiently 
show.     It  is  no  matter  of  surprise  that  he  was  a  fa 
vorite  in  company,  or  peculiarly  interesting  in  conversa 
tion,  to  his  intimate  friends.     We  have  heard  of  spe 
cimens  of  his  lively  and  facetious  turn,  one  of  which 
we  will  take  the  liberty  to  record.    In  his  native  place, 
we  believe  it  was,  he  attended,  on  some  occasion,  a 
meeting   which   was   successively   addressed   by   two 
preachers,  who  claimed  to  be  divinely  moved,  in  the 
exercise  of  their  gifts.     The  first  one  was  brief,  and 
in  what  he  said  seemed  to  defer  to  his  brother,  as  more 
likely  to  fulfil  the  expectations  of  the  audience.     The 
other  attempted  much  more,  but  proceeded  with  diffi 
culty.     Indeed,  he  several  times  offered  the  apology, 
in  rather  quaint  phrase,  that  his  mind  was  imprisoned, 


OF  BRAINARD.  xxxiii 

At  the  close  of  the  services,  as  the  people  retired,  it 
was  natural  that  the  conversation  should  turn  on  the 
speakers.  It  was  observed  by  one,  that  the  latter 
preacher  succeeded  but  indifferently.  "  You  know," 
replied  a  by-stander,  "  that  he  complained  of  the  im 
prisonment  of  his  mind."  At  this  moment  Brainard 
came  up,  and,  on  hearing  the  conversation,  remarked, 
in  his  ready  and  piquant  manner,  that  "  the  preacher's 
mind  might  have  easily  sworn  out."  The  readiness  of 
his  wit  was  apparent  in  his  writings,  a  single  instance 
of  which  we  will  adduce.  The  following  appears  in 
"  The  Mirror"  of  July  5,  1824,  as  a  retort  upon  one 
of  his  critics.  "  We  observe  a  criticism  in  the  '  Vil 
lage  Record,'  on  some  verses  headed  '  The  Deep,'  in 
which  the  writer  says,  '  the  word  brine  has  no  more 
business  in  sentimental  poetry,  than  a  pig  in  a  parlour.' 
We  suspect  the  writer,  though  his  piece  is  dated 
Philadelphia,  lives  at  a  greater  distance  from  the  sea  ; 
and  has  got  his  ideas  of  the  salt  water  from  his  father's 
pork  barrel." 

The  seeming  severity,  as  well  as  the  wit  of  the 
above  stricture  reminds  us  to  say,  that  such  was  not 
the  tone  which  he  held  generally  towards  the  criti 
cisms  bestowed  upon  his  pieces.  He  submitted  to 
just  and  candid  remarks  upon  his  performances,  with 


xxxiv  MEMOIR 

perfect  good-nature.  As  this  was  a  striking  trait  of 
his  character,  connected  with  his  humble  opinion  of 
his  own  performances,  it  deserves  some  illustration. 
In  a  communication  to  "  The  Mirror  "  of  Nov.  10, 
1828,  by  a  Lady,  the  writer  says, —  "  It  is  too  often 
the  fault  of  authors  that  they  are  unwilling  to  submit 
to  criticism,  —  still  less  to  the  alterations  of  others. 
That  the  subject  of  this  article  (Brainard)  was  superior 
to  this,  and  diffident  of  his  own  abilities,  appears  in  a 
letter  to  the  (then)  editor  of  '  The  Mirror,'  Mr.  Lin 
coln,  dated  Jan.  1822,  in  which  Brainard  says,  '  I 
received  yours  this  morning,  and  in  reading  it,  had  to 
regret  that  you  should  have  found  it  necessary  to  offer 
the  slightest  apology,  on  account  of  the  very  proper 
and  necessary  alterations  in  the  lines  I  sent  you.  For, 
if  I  remember  right,  you  was  not  only  authorized,  but 
requested  to  make  such  use  of  them,  as  would  best 
answer  the  purposes  of  "The  Mirror."  From  the 
solemn  tone  of  your  letter,  I  feared  you  was  a  hy 
pochondriac,  or  that  you  was  not  so  well  acquainted 
with  me  as  I  could  wish.  Why,  my  dear  Lincoln, 
when  you  was  about  it,  did  you  not  apologize  for 
thinking  me  a  conceited  fool,  who  knows  his  verses 
are  none  of  the  best,  and  yet  quarrels  with  his  friend 
for  coming  to  the  same  conclusion.  Upon  my  word,  I 


OF  BRAINARD.  xxxv 

did  not  expect  to  see  so  much  of  them  printed  as  I 
found  in  your  last  Mirror.'  '•  The  writer  adds,— 
"  There  is  something  which  makes  us  feel,  as  if  it 
were  almost  sacrilege  to  bring  forward  to  the  public, 
what  was  only  designed  for  the  private  eye  of  friend 
ship,  but  it  also  seems  as  if  the  public  had  a  kind  of 
property  in  the  private  thoughts  of  men  of  genius  ; 
and  when  we  find  talents  united  with  modesty,  and 
good-humor,  we  are  constrained  to  love,  when  we  be 
fore  admired." 

In  respect  to  other  features  of  his  character,  we  have 
the  authority  of  a  writer  in  the  "  Boston  Statesman," 
of  1828,  (as  quoted  by  Mr.  Whittier,)  a  gentleman  in 
timately  acquainted  with  the  poet,  who  cleverly  ob 
serves  as  follows.  "  Brainard  did  not  make  much 
show  in  the  world.  He  was  an  unassuming  and  un 
ambitious  man,  — but  he  had  talents  which  should 
have  made  him  our  pride.  They  were  not  showy  or 
dazzling,  —  and  perhaps  that  is  the  reason  that  the 
general  eye  did  not  rest  upon  him,  —  but  he  had  a 
keen  discriminating  susceptibility,  and  a  taste  exquis 
itely  refined  and  true Brainard  had  no 

enemies.  It  was  not  that  his  character  was  negative, 
or  his  courtesy  universal.  There  was  a  directness  in 
his  manner,  and  a  plain-spoken  earnestness  in  his  ad- 


xxxvi  MEMOIR 

dress,  which  could  never  have  been  wanting  in  proper 
discrimination.  He  would  never  have  compromised 
with  the  unworthy  for  their  good  opinion.  But  it  was 
his  truth,  —  his  fine,  open,  ingenuous  truth, — bound 
up  with  a  character  of  great  purity  and  benevolence, 
which  won  love  for  him.  I  never  met  a  man  of  whom 
all  men  spoke  so  well.  I  fear  I  never  shall.  When 
I  was  introduced  to  him  he  took  me  aside  and  talked 
with  me  for  an  hour.  I  shall  never  forget  that  con 
versation.  He  made  no  commonplace  remarks.  He 
would  not  talk  of  himself,  though  I  tried  to  lead  him 
to  it.  He  took  a  high  intellectual  tone,  and  I  never 
have  heard  its  beauty  or  originality  equalled.  He 
knew  wonderfully  well  the  secrets  of  mental  relish 
and  development ;  and  had  evidently  examined  himself 
till  he  had  grown  fond,  as  every  one  must  who  does  it, 
of  a  quiet,  contemplative,  self-cultivating  life."  But, 
however  his  habitual  aspirations  may  have  been  after 
this  refined  enjoyment,  he  still  greatly  delighted  in  the 
visible  and  palpable  of  human  life.  In  whatever  man 
ner  these  different  traits  may  be  reconciled,  or  ac 
counted  for,  as  meeting  in  the  same  subject,  yet  it  is 
certain  that  no  man  ever  enjoyed  more  than  he  did 
the  every-day  bustle  of  the  world.  He  loved  to  mix 
with  it,  and  in  it,  and  cared  not  if  he  was  borne  along, 


OF  BRAINARD.  xxxvii 

for  a  time,  in  its  current.  A  brigade  review,  with  its 
exhilarating  sights,  sounds,  and  cheer,  seemed  to  give 
him,  in  company  with  a  few  friends,  as  unsophisticat 
ed  a  feeling  of  pleasure,  as  it  did  to  the  veriest  boy  on 
the  ground. 

The  writer  above  quoted,  notices  the  poet  in  his 
social  hours.  "  The  first  time  I  ever  saw  him,  I  met 
him  in  a  gay  and  fashionable  circle.  He  was  pointed 
out  to  me  as  the  poet  Brainard.  A  plain,  ordinary 
looking  individual,  careless  in  his  dress,  and  apparent 
ly  without  the  least  outward  claim  to  the  attention  of 
those  who  value  such  advantages.  But  there  was  no 
person  there,  so  much  or  so  flatteringly  attended  to. 
He  was  among  those  who  saw  him  every  day  and 
knew  him  familiarly  ;  and  I  almost  envied  him,  as  he 
went  round,  the  unqualified  kindness  and  even  affec 
tion,  with  which  every  bright  girl  and  every  mother  in 
the  room  received  him.  He  was  evidently  the  idol, 
not  only  of  the  poetry  loving  and  gentler  sex, — but 
also  of  the  young  men  who  were  about  him,  —  an  ev 
idence  of  worth,  let  me  say,  which  is  as  high  as  it  is 
uncommon." 

The  susceptibility  and  benevolence  of  his  heart, 
were  apparent  to  the  view  of  all  who  were  acquainted 
with  him.  To  illustrate  his  character,  in  this  respect, 


xxxviii  MEMOIR 

we  are  happy  to  furnish  the  following  from  a  manu 
script  which  has  been  put  into  our  hands,  drawn  up 
by  an  intimate  friend  of  the  poet.  "I  have  several 
times,"  he  says,  "attempted  it,"  (that  is,  to  portray 
the  character  of  Brainard,)  "  either  for  my  own  amuse 
ment,  or  the  gratification  of  others,  and  have  succeed 
ed  only  in  sketching  a  sort  of  panegyric  of  any  amia 
ble,  talented,  and  refined  gentleman.  Still  he  was  a 
man  of  many  distinctive  characteristics.  They  were 
those  traits,  however,  which  pleased  by  their  beauty, 
rather  than  astonished  by  their  obtrusive  boldness. 
Indeed,  his  governing  quality,  and  that  which  mellow 
ed  the  light  and  shade  of  all  the  rest,  was  a  delicate 
sensibility.  It  was  not,  however,  that  morbid  suscep 
tibility  to  malevolent  impressions,  which  some  cultivate 
for  effect,  —  a  compound  of  sullenness  and  misanthro 
py, —  a  malignant  excrescence,  that  deforms  all  the 
beautiful  proportions  which  the  soul  brought  from  the 
hands  of  its  Creator  ;  but  it  was  the  offspring  of  be 
nevolence  rather,  which  delighted  in  the  happiness, 
and  was  pained  by  the  misery  of  any  sentient  being  in 
the  universe.  It  is  true  it  could  ill  bear  the  shocks  to 
which  it  was  exposed  in  this  jostling  and  selfish  world  ; 
but  it  rarely  led  him  to  murmur  at  the  causes  of  his 
own  unhappiness,  or  excited  hostility  against  the  au- 


OF  BRAfNARD.  xxxix 

thors  of  ill  to  him.  He  bore  his  own  griefs  in  silence, 
whatever  they  were,  but  was  aroused  to  active  sympa 
thy  whenever  he  saw  his  fellow-man,  or  even  a  brute 

suffer." 

"  I  first  met  him  while  he  resided  in  Middletown. 
I  accompanied  a  sister  of  mine,  while  making  an  af 
ternoon  call  on  Miss  S ,  who,  you  know,  was 

somewhat  celebrated  for  her  beauty  and  wit.  There 
were  several  ladies  in  the  room  when  we  enter 
ed.  Brainard  was  there,  the  soul  and  spirit  of  the 
conversation.  He  seemed  delighted,  and  was  in  his 
happiest  mood.  Of  course  none  present  could  fail 
to  be  delighted  in  him.  Through  awkwardness,  or 
some  other  cause,  I  had  taken  a  seat  somewhat  by 
myself,  and  being  much  younger  than  the  rest,  was 
very  naturally  neglected.  The  embarrassment  of  my  sit 
uation  did  not  long  escape  the  observation  of  Brainard. 
He  left  the  circle  of  beauty  and  brilliant  conversation, 
and  in  the  kindest  and  most  affectionate  manner  ad 
dressed  to  me  such  conversation  as  was  calculated  to 
please  one  of  my  age.  You  may  be  sure  I  was  inter 
ested.  It  was  not  long  before  he  was  again  the  centre 
of  attraction,  and  his  benevolent  face  lighted  up  with 
peculiar  joy  when  he  found  my  embarrassment  re 
moved,  and  me  a  sharer  in  the  conversation  of  that 


xl  MEMOIR 

pleasant  circle  of  friends.  Still,  he  did  not  neglect 
me,  nor  would  he  allow  others  to  do  so.  But  by  often 
addressing  me  he  seemed  to  say,  '  we  may  all  be  hap 
py,  but  the  ease  and  happiness  of  my  young  friend 
must  not  be  neglected.'  On  parting,  his  cordial  invita 
tion  to  call  on  him,  and  make  use  of  his  hospitality 
while  I  remained  in  town,  was  fully  in  keeping  with 
his  kindness  daring  our  short  interview.  In  all  this 
there  was  nothing  of  that  patronizing  air,  which  is  so 
commonly  apparent,  when  men  offer  politeness  to  those 
younger  than  themselves ;  but  just  enough  deference 
to  my  opinion  to  gratify  self-love.  In  short,  there  was 
just  that  tact  which  made  me  feel  pleased  with  myself, 
and  grateful  to  him." 

To  the  general  beauty  of  his  character,  we  add  the 
testimony  of  an  accomplished  female  author,  whose 
representation  is  no  less  beautiful  than  just.  We  quote 
it  from  Mr.  Whittier's  "Sketch."  "To  the  intel 
lectual  power  and  poetical  eminence  of  Mr.  Brainard, 
the  public  will  undoubtedly  do  justice.  But  those  who 
knew  and  valued  him  as  a  friend,  can  bear  testimony 
to  the  intrinsic  excellences  of  his  character.  They 
were  admitted  with  a  generous  freedom  into  the  sanc 
tuary  of  his  soul,  and  saw  those  fountains  of  deep  and 
disinterested  feeling  which  were  hidden  from  casual 


OF  BRAINARD.  xli 

observation.  Friendship  was  not  in  him  a  modification 
of  selfishness,  lightly  conceived,  and  as  lightly  dis 
solved.  His  sentiments  respecting  it  were  formed  on 
the  noble  models  of  ancient  story  ;  and  he  proved  him 
self  capable  of  its  delicate  perceptions,  and  its  undevi- 
ating  integrities.  His  heart  had  an  aptitude  both  for 
its  confidential  interchange,  and  its  sacred  responsibili 
ties.  In  his  intercourse  with  society,  he  exhibited 
neither  the  pride  of  genius,  nor  the  pedantry  of  knowl 
edge.  To  the  critic  he  might  have  appeared  deficient 
in  personal  dignity.  So  humbly  did  he  think  of  him 
self,  and  his  own  attainments,  that  the  voice  of  appro 
bation  and  kindness  seemed  necessary  to  assure  his 
spirits,  and  even  to  sustain  his  perseverance  in  the  la 
bors  of  literature.  Possessed  both  of  genuine  wit,  and 
of  that  playful  humor  which  rendered  his  company 
sought  and  admired,  he  never  trifled  with  the  feelings 
of  others,  or  aimed  to  shine  at  their  expense.  Hence 
he  expected  the  same  regard  to  his  own  mental  com 
fort,  and  was  exceedingly  vulnerable  to  the  careless 
jest,  or  to  the  dullness  of  reserve. 

"  It  did  not  require  the  eye  of  intimacy  to  discover 
that  he  was  endowed  with  an  acute  sensibility.  This 
received  early  nurture  and  example  in  the  bosom  of 
most  affectionate  relatives.  The  endearing  associations 


xlii  MEMOIR 

connected  with  his  paternal  mansion,  preserved  their 
freshness  and  force,  long  after  he  ceased  to  be  an  in 
mate  there The  efforts  which  he 

continually  put  forth  during  his  intercourse  with  man 
kind,  to  conceal  his  extreme  susceptibility,  sometimes 
gave  to  his  manners  the  semblance  of  levity.  Hence 
he  was  liable  to  misconstruction,  and  a  consciousness 
of  this,  by  inducing  occasional  melancholy  and  seclu 
sion,  threw  him  still  further  from  those  sympathies  for 
which  his  affectionate  spirit  languished.  Still  it  can 
not  be  said  that  his  sensibility  had  a  morbid  tendency. 
It  shrank,  indeed,  like  the  Mimosa,  but  it  had  no  worm 
at  its  root.  Its  gushings  forth  were  in  admiration  of 
the  charms  of  nature,  and  in  benevolence  to  the  hum 
blest  creature  ;  to  the  poor  child  in  the  street,  and  to 
the  forest  bird.  It  had  affinity  with  love  to  God,  and  with 
good- will  to  man.  Had  his  life  been  prolonged,  and  he 
permitted  to  encircle  with  the  beautiful  domestic  chari 
ties  a  household  hearth  of  his  own,  the  true  excellen 
ces  of  his  heart  would  have  gained  more  perfect  illus 
tration.  It  possessed  a  simplicity  of  trusting  confi 
dence,  a  fulness  of  tender  and  enduring  affection,  which 
would  there  have  found  free  scope  and  legitimate  ac 
tion.  There  he  might  have  worn  as  a  crown,  that  ex 
quisite  sensibility,  which,  among  proud  and  lofty  spir- 


OF  BRAINARD.  xliii 

its,  he  covered  as  a  blemish,  or  shrank  from  as  a  re 
proach.  But  it  pleased  the  Almighty  early  to  transfer 
him  where  loneliness  can  no  longer  settle  as  a  cloud 
over  his  soul,  nor  the  coarse  enginery  which  earth  em 
ploys  jar  against  its  harp-strings,  and  obstruct  its 
melody." 

The  social  qualities  of  Brainard  rendered  him  de 
servedly  popular.  He  was  formed  for  friendship,  — 
he  had  a  keen  relish  of  its  pleasures,  and  a  nice  dis 
cernment  of  the  influences  by  which  it  might  be  im 
proved  and  perpetuated.  His  heart  was  in  unison  with 
truth,  nature,  and  beauty.  Sweet  voices,  glad  looks, 
the  beamings  of  intelligence,  the  throbbings  of  affec 
tion,  home,  kindred,  country,  the  glorious  creation,  all 
gave  him  the  purest  delight,  and  drew  responses  from 
every  chord  of  his  heart  and  harp.  He  was  ardent  and 
devoted  in  his  personal  attachments,  and  it  is  possible 
that  the  description  of  the  poet  might  occasionally  be 
applied  to  him  ; 

"  Then  must  you  speak 
Of  one  that  loved,  not  wisely,  but  too  ivell." 

"  An  affection"  (we  believe  it  is  the  language  of 
Hazlitt)  "  indulged  to  excess,  or  carried  beyond  what 
the  position  of  the  parties,  or  the  worth  of  the  regarded 
warrants,  or  excited  to  render  superfluous  service,  is, 


xlivr  MEMOIR 

in  the  long  run,  destructive  of  its  existence,  and  injuri 
ous  to  the  peace  of  those  indulging  it,  in  other  things 
beside  love  and  friendship."  If,  occasionally,  Brain- 
ard  was  in  danger  of  being  carried,  in  his  attachments, 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  prudence,  this  fact  only  be 
trayed  the  exuberant  feelings  of  his  fond  and  confiding 
nature. 

Mr.  Brainard  professed  the  hopes,  as  he  had  also 
studied  and  believed  the  truths,  of  Christianity.  His 
sickness  and  death-bed  scene  before  described,  are  well 
adapted  to  impress  his  readers  on  that  point.  The  les 
sons  of  adversity  and  of  life's  trials  had  not  been  lost 
upon  him.  They  softened  and  refined  his  spirit  through 
divine  grace,  and  prepared  it,  we  trust,  for  its  entrance 
upon  a  brighter  sphere.  The  hallowing  process  could 
not  but  be  observed  with  much  interest.  The  soul's 
disorders  through  sin  are  remedied  often  by  the  instru 
mentalities  of  the  body's  sufferings.  And,  transform 
ed  by  the  Spirit  of  holiness  into  the  divine  image,  it 
gathers  up  its  energies  to  meet  the  crisis  of  its  fate, 
with  cheerful  and  blest  submission  to  the  Sovereign 
Disposer.  Thus  it  was  with  Brainard,  as  it  has  been 
with  other  believers.  They  are  invigorated  within,  as 
they  decay  without.  They  grow  spiritual,  as  the  body 
is  more  inert.  They  are  made  contented,  as  their  cor- 


OF  BRAINARD.  xlr 

poreal  infirmities  abound.  Their  spirits  become  joyful, 
as  their  senses  are  rendered  incapable  of  gratification. 
And  glory  is  felt  to  be  nearer,  as  that  greatest  earthly 
trial  approaches, —  the  dissolution  of  the  body.  This  is 
the  paradox  of  a  triumphing  Christianity.  Let  none 
of  the  choice  spirits  of  the  world  be  left  to  doubt,  that 
the  Gospel  can  do  that  for  them,  which  it  did  for  Brain- 
ard,  —  which  it  has  done  for  others  endowed  with  all 
the  gifts,  and  exposed  to  all  the  temptations,  of  genius. 
The  person  of  Brainard  was  somewhat  below  the 
ordinary  size.  The  bland  feelings  of  his  heart,  as  well 
as  his  intelligence,  beamed  from  his  eye,  as  they  were 
also  expressed  in  the  lineaments  of  his  countenance 
generally.  In  the  intercourse  of  friendship,  and  in  the 
lively  sallies  of  wit,  his  face  was  wont  to  glow  with  a 
fine  expression.  There  was  a  carelessness  about  his 
personal  appearance  and  costume,  —  his  attitudes  and 
walk,  —  which,  though  not  obnoxious  to  animadversion, 
showed  the  abstractedness  of  the  poet  and  the  man  of 
thought.  His  sensitiveness  was  particularly  manifested 
by  any  allusion  to  his  size.  Little  as  such  a  circum 
stance  deserved  consideration  or  notice  on  his  part,  it 
was  a  peculiarity  of  the  man,  that  he  seemed  to  wish  it 
had  been  otherwise.  We  should  find  it  difficult,  were 
we  to  undertake  it,  to  account  for  the  whims  of  intel- 


xlvi  MEMOIR 

lectual  men  ;  and  these  things  are  mentioned,  only  be 
cause  the  public  regard  any  thing  as  interesting,  which 
illustrates  the  character  of  a  favorite. 

Brainard  was  in  the  habit  of  rapid  composition. 
This  was  in  agreement  with  the  character  of  his  mind, 
and  was  aided  by  the  circumstances  in  which  he  was 
led  to  write  his  poems.  The  necessity  of  filling  some 
column  or  part  of  a  column  of  his  paper  with  verses, 
prompted  to  the  composition  of  most  of  his  pieces,  and 
it  was  hence  almost  unavoidable  that  he  should  write  in 
haste,  and  often  in  a  state  of  mind  adverse  to  poetical 
inspiration.  The  ease,  however,  with  which  he  poured 
out  his  thoughts  on  paper,  made  some  amends  for  this 
disadvantage.  In  any  place,  and  in  any  situation,  it  is 
understood,  he  could  give  audience  to  the  whisper  of 
his  Muse.  * 


*  A  single  anecdote  in  illustration.  A  friend  had  long  so 
licited  Brainard  to  write  for  him  a  piece  of  poetry  for  the 
Commonplace  Book  of  a  young  lady  5  from  which,  on  some 
plea,  he  had  always  excused  himself.  One  wintry  day  he 
again  entered  the  editor's  room,  with  the  identical  album  in 
hand.  Brainard  was  shivering  with  cold  ;  there  were  only  a 
few  exhausted  embers  on  the  hearth,  and  no  wood  in  the 
room.  After  a  few  moments,  he  turned  to  his  friend  and  said; 
<(  I  tell  you  what :  if  you  will  run  up  stairs  and  bring  me  down 
an  arm-full  of  wood,  I  '11  write  for  you."  The  wood  was  in 


OF  BRAINARD.  xlvii 

The  above  is  the  substance  of  what  we  have  been 
able  to  gather  of  the  history  and  character  of  Brainard, 
from  published  records,  and  from  the  communications 
of  private  friendship  and  acquaintanceship.  It  might 
be  a  matter  of  regret,  that  a  larger  number  of  inci 
dents  pertaining  to  his  life,  and  a  fuller  delineation  of 
his  intellect,  disposition,  and  habits,  could  not  be  pre 
sented  in  this  place,  were  it  not  true,  that  the  inter 
est  of  literary  biography  depends  but  in  part  on  the 
abundance  of  the  materials  thus  spread  out  before  the 
public  eye.  We  look  not  for  adventures  and  startling 
incidents,  in  the  life  of  a  mere  poet  or  literary  man. 
We  can  well  dispense  also  with  many  offerings,  in  the 
shape  of  encomium,  and  the  enthusiastic  admiration  of 
friends,  to  his  hallowed  memory.  We  love  chiefly  to 
contemplate  him  in  his  writings,  —  to  learn  the  man 

the  garret,  up  two  flights  of  stairs  ;  but  the  book  was  handed 
to  Brainard,  and  off  went  the  friend  for  his  burden,  glad  in 
any  way  to  secure  the  poetry.  He  had  hardly  returned  before 
Brainard  had  completed  the  beautiful  lines  commencing, 
l<  See  to  your  book,  young  lady." 

We  know,  also,  that  some  portion  of  the  lines  on  Connecti 
cut  River  (which  originally  appeared  as  "New-Year's  Verses," 
with  the  caption,  "  The  Compliments  of  the  Year  1827  to  the 
Connecticut  River,")  went  to  the  compositor  in  fragments  of 
a  few  lines,  as  he  was  waiting  for  copy. 


xlviii  MEMOIR 

and  his  story  there.  Sometimes,  when  a  bright  and 
beautiful  luminary  has  blazed  in  the  intellectual  hori 
zon,  we  are  disappointed,  as  in  the  case  of  Shakspeare, 
at  the  meagre  details  of  the  history  of  its  course.  We 
would  trace  it  from  its  rising  to  its  setting,  and  mark 
all  its  phases  and  variations,  with  the  fondness  of  an 
idolatrous  veneration;  and  satisfy  our  minds,  how  like 
or  unlike  it  was,  to  any  thing  that  ever  attracted  the 
view  of  mankind,  before  or  since.  It  may  also  add 
somewhat  to  the  admiration  of  genius,  to  be  able  to 
learn,  for  instance,  the  perilous  adventures  of  a  Camo- 
ens,  swimming  from  a  shipwreck,  with  his  immortal 
epic  borne  in  his  hand  above  the  waves,  —  the  heroic 
exploits,  and  martyr-like  sufferings,  of  a  Cervantes  in 
Algerine  captivity,  —  or  the  wayward  fortunes  of  a 
Tasso,  in  imprisonment,  prolonged  disease,  and  disap 
pointed  love.  Still,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  we  are 
contented  to  learn  the  better  part  of  the  writer  in  his 
works.  Genuine  talent  stamps  upon  these  its  own 
features.  The  passions  and  dispositions  of  the  heart 
stand  forth  embodied  and  living  in  the  portraitures  of 
the  pen.  There  we  must  learn  much  of  Brainard. 

It  is  generally  true,  that  excellence  in  any  depart 
ment  of  intellectual  effort,  is  sooner  or  later  recognised, 
on  the  part  of  those  before  whom  it  is  exhibited.  This 


OF   BRAINARD.  xlii 

is  the  fact  in  regard  to  poetry,  perhaps,  even  in  a 
greater  degree,  than  in  any  other  species  of  writing. 
The  genuine  strains  of  the  muse  readily  find  a  response 
in  the  minds  of  most  men.  They  are  laid  up  in  the 
memories,  and  rehearsed  from  the  lips  of  thousands. 
There  may,  sometimes,  be  a  tardiness  in  the  public,  as 
in  the  case  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton r  in  awarding  its 
approbation;  but  that  approbation  will  come  at  length, 
and  make  ample  amends  for  its  temporary  injustice,  by 
its  increased  and  more  lasting  incense.  Wherever  a 
true  bard  appears,  the  public  will  become  interested  in 
him.  He  cannot  pour  forth  the  sweet  voice  of  song, 
and  long  remain  unheard — unanswered.  Its  echoes 
will  resound  through  grove,  and  cottage,  and  hall  — 
through  camp  and  court.  This  is  the  test  of  worth ; 
and  it  is  a  test  to  which  Brainard  and  his  poems  may 
be  confidingly  committed.  For  although,  as  Snelling 
says,  "he  wrote  under  every  disadvantage,  and,  as 
might  be  expected,  the  faults  of  his  writings  were 
neither  few  nor  small,"  yet,  "  at  the  same  time  he  had 
the  stamina  of  poetry.  Had  he  received  encourage 
ment  sufficient  to  awaken  his  energies,  his  name  would 
have  lived  for  ever.  He  was  wholly  unconscious  of 
his  own  strength,  and  threw  off  his  best  pieces  without 
hesitation  or  premeditation.  To  this  carelessness  his 
d 


1  MEMOIR 

faults  must  be  attributed.  In  this,  too,  he  is  not  alone 
among  American  poets,  most  of  whom,  it  seems,  write 
as  carelessly  as  Brainard,  though  by  no  means  as  well. 
I  wish  I  could  mention  three  of  them  who  equal  John 
Gardiner  Calkins  Brainard,  or  six  who  even  approach 
his  excellence." 

His  poetry,  it  is  conceived,  reflects  much  of  the  idio 
syncrasy  of  the  man.  His  simplicity,  his  sportiveness, 
the  child-like  character  of  his  feelings,  the  tenderness 
of  his  emotions,  his  humble  and  unpretending  views  of 
himself,  and  the  occasional  depression  which  came 
over  him,  are  imaged  forth  in  his  poetry,  as  in  a  pol 
ished  mirror.  We  are  at  no  loss  to  decipher  him,  — 
to  tell  what  he  was.  He  appears  honest  and  open  as 
the  day.  Both  the  blossoms  and  the  fruit  of  charity  in 
him,  —  the  elevated  scriptural  sentiment,  and  the  prac 
tical  purpose  of  good,—  mingle  together  in  varied  love 
liness  of  description,  like  the  flowering  and  fruit-laden 
orange  tree  ;  and  while  the  imagination  is  feasted  with 
its  beauty,  the  heart  is  improved  by  its  lessons  and  ex 
ample  of  wisdom.  There  was  no  mysticism  about  him, 
—  no  such  shaping  of  his  words  as  to  make  men  won 
der  what  he  was,  and  least  of  all,  what  he  means.  He 
never  "minces  an  ambiguous  skepticism,"  after  the 
fashion  of  many  of  his  brother  bards  abroad.  His  sim- 


OF  BRAINARD.  li 

pie  faith  is  simply  expressed,  and  there  is  a  common- 
sense  view  which  he  takes  of  man,  nature,  and  the 
events  of  providence,  that  approves  itself  to  every  un 
sophisticated  mind. 

His  poetry  is  the  expression  of  clear  and  quiet  thought. 
The  image  is  brought  out  with  distinctness,  and  there 
seems  to  be  the  absence  of  effort  to  make  it  dazzling 
and  impressive.  This  is  the  true  classical  grace,  — 
the  repose  of  a  pure,  deep  soul,  as  we  find  it  in  the 
masters  of  the  lyre,  in  past  times.  The  circumstances 
under  which  Brainard  wrote,  as  we  have  already  learn 
ed,  precluded  that  degree  of  polish  and  care,  so  desir 
able  in  poetic  composition.  Hence,  he  has  unequal 
poems,  and  sometimes  careless,  incorrect,  or  coarse 
lines.  But  he  showed  the  natural  felicity  of  the  bard 
—  the  power  of  delineating  in  a  few  graceful  and 
graphic  touches,  the  image  as  it  arose  in  his  own  mind. 
With  what  clearness  and  nature  is  the  idea  brought 
out  in  the  following  lines  of  the  "Invalid  "  ! 

"  The  grassy  lane  o'er-arched  with  boughs  and  leaves, 
Runs  its  green  vista  to  a  small  bright  point. 
And  that  point  is  the  ocean.     Faint  the  limbs, 
And  all  the  body  tires,  —  but  for  the  soul 
It  hath  its  holyday  in  such  a  spot. 

"  A  moment  rest  we  on  the  only  stone 
In  all  the  alley,  —  wipe  the  sweating  brow, 
And  drop  the  eye  upon  the  turf  around." 


lii  MEMOIR 

The  above  has  the  terseness,  the  distinct  thought  of 
Cowper,  and  perhaps  more  than  his  simplicity.  Again, 
in  the  following  lines  of  the  poem  on  "  Connecticut 
River,"  we  notice  the  same  feature. 

"Thy  noble  shores  !  where  the  tall  steeple  shines, 
At  mid-day,  higher  than  thy  mountain  pines, 
Where  the  white  school-house  with  its  daily  drill 
Of  sunburnt  children,  smiles  upon  the  hill; 
Where  the  neat  village  grows  upon  the  eye, 
Decked  forth  in  nature's  sweet  simplicity,  — 
Where  hard-won  competence,  the  farmer's  wealth, 
Gains  merit,  honor,  and  gives  labor  health  ; 
Where  Goldsmith's  self  might  send  his  exiled  band 
To  find  a  new  '  Sweet  Auburn/  in  our  land." 

The  name  of  Goldsmith  here  reminds  us  that  the 
strain  itself,  as  well  as  the  theme,  is  not  unworthy  of 
that  sweet  and  elegant  poet. 

A  foreign  reviewer  *  calls  Brainard  "  careless,"  but 
pays  him  generally  a  high  compliment,  and  acknowl 
edges  that,  "  even  in  this  carelessness,  which  presents 
the  thought  in  its  full  and  undiluted  form,  there  is  often 
a  charm."  We  should  say,  rather,  that  the  charm  lies 
in  a  certain  rare  union  of  a  vivid  conception  with  the 
power  of  graphic  expression,  —  thus  painting  the  idea 
with  perfectness  to  the  reader's  mind,  as  in  the  passage 
on  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  —  which  accurate  and  sublime 

*  The  Edinburgh  Review. 


OF  BRAINARD.  liii 

description,  be  it  remembered,  is  the  more  remarkable 
from  the  fact  that  the  poet  never  saw  Niagara. 

"  It  would  seem, 

As  if  God  poured  thee  from  his  '  hollow  hand/ 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thy  awful  front  j 
And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seemed  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 
'  The  sound  of  many  waters/  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  his  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks." 

Also,  we  have  the  same  characteristic  in  the  lines  of 
the  "  Invalid." 

"  He  has  heard  its  mighty  sound 
Whose  bark  was  on  its  awful  waters,  when 
The  billows  swept  the  deck  and  rioted, 
Mixed  with  the  winds  round  all  its  gallant  spars. 
He  too  has  heard  its  meanings,  who,  becalmed 
Lies  like  a  small  thing,  helpless  and  alone, 
Upon  a  rolling  waste  immensity." 

The  reader  of  Brainard's  poetry  will  have  noticed 
his  nice  and  accurate  observation  of  nature,  and  the  objects 
around  him,  so  characteristic  of  one,  who  has  a  true 
poet's  eye  and  heart.  We  cite  the  following  as  an  ex 
ample,  in  the  "  Maniac's  Song  "  ;  — 

"  Now  I  have  lost  my  blooming  health, 
And  joy  and  hope  no  more  abide  ; 
And  wildering  fancies  come  by  stealth, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  shifting  tide" 


liv  MEMOIR 

Also  the  latter  paragraph  of  "  The  Indian  Summer  "  : 
"  The  moon  stays  longest  for  the  hunter  now  5 
The  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the.  blithe 
And  busy  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store  : 
While  man  enjoys  the  breeze  that  sweeps  along 
The  bright  blue  sky  above  him,  and  that  bends 
Magnificently  all  the  forest's  pride, 
Or  whispers  through  the  evergreens,  and  asks, 
'  What  is  there  saddening  in  the  autumn  leaves  ?  ;  ' 

Those  associations  which  are  suggested  to  the  mind 
by  natural  objects,  are  occasionally  marked  by  the  poet, 
with  much  effect,  as  in  the  following  passage  ; 
:'  There  's  music  in  the  deep  :  — 
It  is  not  in  the  surf's  rough  roar, 
Nor  in  the  whispering  shelly  shore, — 
They  are  but  earthly  sounds,  that  tell 
How  little  of  the  sea  nymph's  shell 
That  sends  its  loud  clear  note  abroad, 
Or  winds  its  softness  through  the  flood, 
Echoes  through  groves  with  coral  gay, 
And  dies  on  spongy  banks  away." 

The  poem  "I  know  a  Brook,"  has  one  of  those 
suggestive  topics,  which  are  so  pleasing  and  instructive 
in  poetry.  After  a  beautiful  description  of  the  object, 
the  poet  concludes  ; 

"  There  I  placed 

A  frail  memorial,  —  that  when  again 
I  should  revisit  it,  the  thought  might  come 
Of  the  dull  tide  of  life,  and  ihzt  pure  spring 
Which  he  who  drinks  of  never  shall  thirst  more." 


OF  BRAINARD.  IT 

The  frequent  occurrence  of  the  pathetic  in  Brainard's 
poetry,  has  given  it  one  of  its  most  winning  character 
istics.  Every  reader  feels  its  power,  in  the  simple  and 
concise  touches,  which  could  have  proceeded  only  from 
a  heart  exquisitely  alive  to  every  holy  sympathy. 
"  Sketch  of  an  Occurrence  on  board  of  a  Brig,"  "  On 
a  late  Loss,"  "  The  Maniac's  Song,"  "  Is  it  Fancy  or 
is  it  Fact,"  are  among  the  pieces  that  bear  this  char 
acter.  Poets  that  excel  in  pathos,  are  not  unfrequently 
felicitous  in  humorous  description,  which  would  appear 
to  require  talent  of  an  opposite  kind,  though  they  may 
be  connected  by  a  nice  and  undiscernible  bond.  Some 
of  the  pieces  of  the  latter  kind,  are  "  The  Fragment," 
"  Lines  written  for  a  Lady's  Common-Place  Book,  " 
"  The  Presidential  Cotillion,"  "  The  Bar  versus  the 
Docket,"  and  "  The  Two  Comets."  There  is  much 
genuine  humor  in  them,  though,  in  a  few  instances, 
they  happen  to  contain  indifferent  poetry. 

Our  poet  has  a  various  and  appropriate  manner,  in 
his  several  productions.  There  is  in  them  the  reverse 
of  sameness  in  matter,  argument,  and  style.  Scarcely 
a  recurrence  of  the  same  expression  is  found.  We 
meet  with  no  ever-returning  identities  of  thought  and 
imagery,  and  language.  Every  thing  is  fitted  to  its 
place  and  occasion  ;  and  only  a  natural  and  appropriate 


Ivi  MEMOIR 

form  seems  to  have  been  adopted,  in  spreading  out  his 
fancies  and  feelings,  before  the  eye  of  the  public.  No 
one  was  ever  less  a  mannerist  than  this  poet.  After 
reading  a  few  pieces  of  some  of  our  writers  of  song,  you 
learn  what  to  expect  in  regard  to  that  which  is  coming, 
in  rhythm  and  cadence,  if  not  in  sentiment  and  thought. 
You  know  the  author,  almost,  without  reading  his 
name,  as  soon  as  a  few  strings  of  his  lyre  have  been 
touched  :  and  you  have  hardly  the  pleasure  of  gratify 
ing  an  excited  curiosity,  by  the  appearance  of  any  vari 
ety  or  novelty  of  matter  and  manner.  Brainard  had 
too  much  of  the  warm  spirit  of  poetry  about  him,  to 
fall  into  that  artificial  mannerism,  by  which  some 
would  impart  effect  to  their  ungenial  effusions. 

Brainard  has  recommended  himself  to  his  country 
men,  as  a  truly  American  poet.  His  topics,  his  im- 
gery,  his  illustrations  are  mostly  of  native  growth. 
There  is  a  raciness  about  them  which  cannot  be  mis 
taken.  The  reader  on  this  side  of  the  water  is  familiar 
with  the  scenes,  the  associations,  or  the  incidents  to 
which  he  is  introduced.  Most  of  the  common-place  of 
poetry  is  avoided.  The  mountains,  lakes,  rivers,  trees, 
animals,  —  the  characters,  pursuits,  pastimes,  and  su 
perstitions,  which  are  touched  by  the  pen  of  the  bard, 
are  American.  A  foreign  reviewer  has  expressed  the 


OF  BRAINARD.  Ivii 

opinion,  concerning  a  volume  of  Selections  from 
American  Poets,  designed  especially  to  convey  strong 
impressions  of  the  characteristics  of  the  New  World, 
that  it  conveys  no  such  impression  at  all,  —  that,  with 
slight  exceptions,  one  is  surprised  to  find  it  so  truly 
English,  —  that  its  beauties  and  defects  are  so  similar 
to  the  poetry  of  the  parent  land.  However  true  this 
may  be  in  general,  yet  in  regard  to  Brainard,  who  is 
one  of  the  poets  from  whom  selections  were  made,  it 
cannot  be  admitted.  Scarcely  a  page  is  there  but 
shows  the  American  in  the  topic,  the  allusion,  the 
scenery,  or  the  characters.  He  is  more  truly  Ameri 
can,  than  some  English  bards  are  English.  Take,  for 
instance,  Shenstone,  who  is,  indeed,  sufficiently  arti 
ficial,  but  whom,  however,  we  mention,  because  we 
happened  not  long  since  to  refresh  our  memory  with 
his  entire  poetry.  He  speaks  much  of  the  country  and 
its  scenes,  particularly  in  his  pastorals  and  elegies ;  but 
it  might,  in  general,  as  well  have  been  Greece,  as 
Great  Britain,  —  Arcadia  as  Warwickshire.  Fine  and 
sweet  as  he  is,  who  does  not  sicken  to  hear  so  many 
changes  rung  on  the  pastoral  names  of  Damon,  Cory- 
don,  Strephon,  Phillis,  Delia,  and  Melissa  !  The  kids, 
the  goats,  and  the  lambs  of  Theocritus  and  Virgil,  figure 
in  the  effeminate,  though  lauded  strain.  Our  native 


Iviii  MEMOIR 

bard  has  made  his  mother  tongue  a  better  vehicle  of 
American  peculiarities,  than  the  Englishman  has  of 
the  characteristics  of  Old  England.  It  is,  at  all  events, 
poetry  in  which  his  countrymen  can  see  its  reflection  of 
themselves, — their  notions,  sentiments,  usages,  and 
institutions. 

Like  the  great  mass  of  American  poetry,  Brainard's 
is  free  alike  from  a  vicious  and  infidel  taint.  It  is  safe 
to  the  healthfulness,  purity,  and  peace  of  the  heart  to 
read  his  productions.  A  strain  of  humor,  —  of  merri 
ment  may  occasionally  relax  the  muscles  of  the  face  ; 
but  no  licentious,  and  maddening  thoughts  are  suggest 
ed  by  the  pictures  of  his  Muse.  Generally,  a  serious, 
though  cheerful  and  correct  view,  is  taken  of  human 
life,  and  its  varied,  its  vast  interests,  — of  the  world  and 
its  pursuits,  —  of  the  ways  of  Providence,  —  and  of  the 
truths  of  Revelation.  Occasionally  you  meet  with  a 
sweet  religious  sentiment,  —  not  perhaps  directly  and 
didactically  enforced,  but  incidentally  and  by  allusion, 
or  example,  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  Cowper,  in  his 
"Alexander  Selkirk." 

Brainard's  was  a  short  career  :  had  he  therefore 
been  characterized  by  unwonted  diligence  and  energy, 
he  might  have  failed,  by  the  shortness  of  life,  to  realize 
the  highest  style  of  the  poetic  art.  But,  inclined  as 


OF  BRA1NARD.  lix 

he  was,  constitutionally,  somewhat  to  the  opposite  state 
of  mind,  and  obliged  often  to  write  in  haste  and  in 
other  circumstances  unfavorable  to  composition,  several 
of  his  efforts,  as  we  have  already  sufficiently  admitted, 
are  stamped  with  a  corresponding  imperfection.  Still, 
enough  has  been  achieved  to  rank  him  as  a  poet  of  no 
ordinary  power  and  maturity.  The  spirit  of  song  dwelt 
in  him  richly,  —  the  success  that  he  met  with  shows 
that  he  did  not  mistake  his  vocation,  —  and  it  would 
seem,  as  if  only  longer  life  and  additional  opportunities 
were  wanting,  to  the  fullest  development  of  poetic 
excellence. 

We  subjoin  to  this  sketch,  a  poetic  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  Brainard,  from  the  pen  of  Snelling.  Though 
it  probably  expresses,  with  far  too  much  strength,  the 
poet's  trials  arising  from  the  deficient  patronage  and  fa 
vor  of  his  countrymen  at  large,  it  is,  in  other  respects, 
both  just  and  beautiful. 

"  PEACE,  Muse  ;  a  rest  thy  wearied  pinions  crave, 
Alight,  and  weep  on  Brainard's  early  grave. 
Lamented  Brainard  !    Since  no  living  line 
Records  thy  worth,  I  '11  make  that  merit  mine  : 
Be  mine  the  task  to  make  fresh  roses  bloom, 
And  shed  undying  fragrance  on  thy  tomb. 
In  thine  own  mind  our  cause  of  mourning  grew,  — 
The  falchion's  temper  ate  the  scabbard  through. 


MEMOIR. 


Hard,  hard  thy  lot,  and  great  thy  country's  shame, 

Who  let  such  offspring  die  without  his  fame. 

He  pined  to  see  the  buds  his  brow  that  decked. 

Nipped  by  the  bitter  blight  of  cold  neglect. 

Torn  from  the  tree,  they  perished  one  by  one, 

Before  their  opening  petals  saw  the  sun; 

While  the  same  chilling  blast  that  breathed  on  them, 

Froze  the  rich  life-blood  of  the  noble  stem. 

But  not  neglect,  nor  sorrow's  rankling  smart/ 

Could  sour  the  kindly  current  of  his  heart; 

And  not  the  canker  that  consumed  his  frame 

Could  to  the  last  his  eagle  spirit  tame  ; 

With  faltering  hand  his  master  harp  he  strung, 

While  music  echoed  from  his  dying  tongue, 

Then,  winged  his  passage  to  a  higher  sphere, 

To  seek  the  glory  we  denied  him  here. 

Fair  Cygnus  thus,  while  life's  last  pulses  roll, 

Pours  forth  in  melody  his  parting  soul." 


MONODY. 

MONODY  ON  THE  POET  BRAINARD. 
BY  MRS.  L.  H.  SJGOURNEY. 


I  ROAMED  where  Thames  *  old  Ocean's  breast  doth  cheer, 
Pouring  from  crystal  urn,  the  waters  sheen, 
What  time  dim  twilight's  silent  step  was  near, 
And  gathering  dews  impearled  the  margin  green  ; 
Yet,  though  mild  autumn  with  a  smile  serene 
Had  gently  fostered  summer's  lingering  bloom, 
Methought  strange  sadness  brooded  o'er  the  scene,  — 
While  the  lone  river,  murmuring  on  in  gloom, 
Deplored  its  sweetest  bard,  laid  early  in  the  tomb. 

His  soul  for  friendship  formed,  sublime,  sincere,  — 
Of  each  ungenerous  deed  his  high  disdai :, 
Perchance  the  cold  world  scanned  with  eye  severe  ;  — 
Perhaps  his  harp  her  guerdon  failed  to  gain  ;  — 
But  Nature  guards  his  fame,  for  not  in  vain 
He  sang  her  shady  dells,  and  mountains  hoar,  — 
King  Philip's  billowy  bay  repeats  his  name, 
To  its  gray  tower,  —  and  with  eternal  roar 
Niagara  bears  it  on  to  the  far-echoing  shore. 

Each  sylvan  haunt  he  loved,  —  the  simplest  flower 
That  burned  Heaven's  incense  in  its  bosom  fair, 
The  crested  billow  with  its  fitful  power,  — 
The  chirping  nest,  that  claimed  another's  care,  — 
All  woke  his  worship,  as  some  altar  rare 
Or  sainted  shrine  doth  win  the  pilgrim's  knee  j  — 
And  he  hath  gone  to  rest,  where  earth  and  air 
Lavish  their  sweetest  charms,  —  while  loud  and  free 
Sounds  forth  the  wind-swept  harp  of  his  own  native  sea. 

•  The  Thames  is  a  tributary  of  Long  Island  Sound,  at  New  London. 


Ixii  TO   THE   MEMORY  OF  BRAINARD. 

His  country's  brave  defenders,  few  and  gray, 
By  penury  stricken,  with  despairing  sighs, — 
He  nobly  sang,  and  breathed  a  warning  lay 
Lest  from  their  graves  a  withering  corse  should  rise  : 
But  now,  where  pure  and  bright,  the  peaceful  skies 
And  watching  stars  look  down,  on  Groton's  height, 
Their  monument  attracts  the  traveller's  eyes, 
Whose  souls  unshrinking  took  their  martyr-flight, 
When  Arnold's  traitor-sword  flashed  out  in  fiendish  might. 

Youth  with  glad  hand  her  frolic  germs  had  sown, 
And  garlands  clustered  round  his  manly  head,  — 
Those  garlands  withered,  —  and  he  stood  alone 
While  on  his  cheek  the  gnawing  hectic  fed, — 
And  chilling  death-dews  o'er  his  temple  spread:  — 
But  on  his  soul  a  quenchless  star  arose, 
Whose  hallowed  beams  their  brightest  lustre  shed 
When  the  dimmed  eye  to  its  last  pillow  goes, — 
He  followed  where  it  led,  and  found  a  saint's  repose. 

And  now,  farewell !  —  The  rippling  stream  shall  hear 
No  more  the  echo  of  thy  sportive  oar  ; 
Nor  the  loved  group,  thy  father's  halls  that  cheer, 
Joy  in  the  magic  of  thy  presence  more  ;  — 
Long  shall  their  tears  thy  broken  lyre  deplore  :  — 
Yet  doth  thine  image,  warm  and  deathless,  dwell 
With  those  who  love  the  minstrel's  tuneful  lore,  — 
And  still  thy  music,  like  a  treasured  spell, 
Thrills  deep  within  our  souls.     Lamented  bard,  farewell  ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  J.  G.  C.  BRAINARD. 
BY  J.  G.  WniTTrER. 


GONE  to  the  land  of  silence,  —  to  the  shadows  of  the  dead,  — 
With  the  green  turf  on  thy  bosom,  and  the  gray  stone  at  thy  head  ! 


FAREWELL.  Ixiii 

Hath  thy  spirit  too  departed  ?    Doth  it  never  linger  here, 
When  the  dew  upon  the  bending  flower  is  falling  like  a  tear  ? 
When  the  sunshine  lights  the  green  earth  like  the  perfect  smile  of  God, 
Or  when  the  moonlight  gladdens,  or  the  pale  stars  look  abroad  ? 

Hast  thou  lost  thy  pleasant  fellowship  with  the  beautiful  of  earth, 
With  the  green  trees,  and  the  quiet  streams  around  thy  place  of  birth  ? 
The  wave  that  wanders  seaward,  —  the  tall  gray  hills,  whereon 
Lingers,  as  if  for  sacrifice,  the  last  light  of  the  sun  ;  — 
The  fair  of  form,  — the  pure  of  soul,  —  the  eyes  that  shone  when  thou 
Wast  answering  to  their  smile  of  love,  —  art  thou  not  with  them  now  ? 

Thou  art  sleeping  calmly,  Brainard,  —  but  the  fame  denied  thee  when 

Thy  way  was  with  the  multitude,  —  the  living  tide  of  men, 

Is  burning  o'er  thy  sepulchre,  —  a  holy  light  and  strong, 

And  gifted  ones  are  kneeling  there,  to  breathe  thy  words  of  song,  — 

The  beautiful  and  pure  of  soul,  —  the  lights  of  Earth's  cold  bowers, 

Are  twining  on  thy  funeral-stone  a  coronal  of  flowers  ! 

Ay,  freely  hath  the  tear  been  given,  —  and  freely  hath  gone  forth 
The  sigh  of  grief,  that  one  like  thee  should  pass  away  from  Earth,  — 
Yet  those  who  mourn  thee,  mourn  thee  not  like  those  to  whom  is  given 
No  soothing  hope,  no  blissful  thought,  of  parted  friends  in  Heaven,  — 
They  feel  that  thou  wast  summoned  to  the  Christian's  high  reward, 
The  everlasting  joy  of  those  whose  trust  is  in  the  Lord. 


FAREWELL  TO  BRAINARD. 
BY  DEODATUS  BUTTON. 


MINSTREL,  farewell ! 
Sadly  thy  harp  is  slumbering, 

Its  golden  chords  unstrung,  — 
Thy  voice,  that  woke  its  echoing, 

Its  cygnet  note  hath  aung ; 
And  voice  and  harp  will  slumber  on 
Till  Time's  last  lingering  sands  have  run 
Minstrel,  farewell  ! 


Ixiv  FAREWELL. 

Friend,  thou  art  gone  ! 
We  meet  no  more  thy  warm  embrace, 

With  cordial  friendship  stored, — 
We  greet  no  more  thy  welcome  face, 

Around  our  social  board,  — 
Thy  wonted  seat  is  vacant  now, 
And  thou,  our  friend,  O  !  where  art  thou  ? 
Alas  !  thou  'rt  gone  ! 

Brother,  adieu  ! 
We  mourn  thy  early  destiny, 

Thou  nearest,  dearest,  best,  — 
Ay,  bitterly  we  wept  to  sec, 

The  grave  close  o'er  thy  breast ! 
But  't  was  His  will ;  then  let  us  stand 
Submissive  'neath  his  chastening  hand  ! 
Brother,  adieu  ! 

Son, thou  hast  fled  ! 
Thou  wert  a  green  and  verdant  leaf, 

And  /  am  pale  and  sere  ! 
Yet  thou  hast  fallen  !  while  in  grief, 

I  still  am  lingering  here  ! 
My  noble,  O  !  my  darling  boy, 
Thou  wert  thy  father's  hope  and  joy  ! 
Yet  thou  hast  fled. 

"  Christian,  all  hail !  " 
Here  with  our  songs  of  love  and  praise, 

Thy  voice  will  wake  again  ; 
Thy  harp  in  loudest  notes  shall  raise 

An  everlasting  strain  ! 
Our  God  and  thine,  who  knows  no  end, 
Will  be  thy  Father,  Brother,  Friend  ! 
"  Christian,  all  hail." 


POEMS 


POEMS. 


ON  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 


FROM  that  lone  lake,  the  sweetest  of  the  chain 

That  links  the  mountain  to  the  mighty  main, 

Fresh  from  the  rock  and  swelling  by  the  tree, 

Rushing  to  meet  and  dare  and  breast  the  sea  — 

Fair,  noble,  glorious  river  !  in  thy  wave 

The  sunniest  slopes  and  sweetest  pastures  lave ; 

The  mountain  torrent,  with  its  wintry  roar 

Springs  from  its  home  and  leaps  upon  thy  shore  :  — 

The  promontories  love  thee  —  and  for  this 

Turn  their  rough  cheeks  and  stay  thee  for  thy  kiss. 

Stern,  at  thy  source,  thy  northern  Guardians  stand, 
Rude  rulers  of  the  solitary  land, 
Wild  dwellers  by  thy  cold  sequestered  springs, 
Of  earth  the  feathers  and  of  air  the  wings  ; 
Their  blasts  have  rocked  thy  cradle,  and  in  storm 
Covered  thy  couch  and  swathed  in  snow  thy  form  — 


4  ON  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

Yet,  blessed  by  all  the  elements  that  sweep 
The  clouds  above,  or  the  unfathomed  deep, 
The  purest  breezes  scent  thy  blooming  hills, 
The  gentlest  dews  drop  on  thy  eddying  rills, 
By  the  mossed  bank,  and  by  the  aged  tree, 
The  silver  streamlet  smoothest  glides  to  thee. 

The  young  oak  greets  thee  at  the  water's  edge, 
Wet  by  the  wave,  though  anchored  in  the  ledge. 
—  'T  is  there  the  otter  dives,  the  beaver  feeds, 
Where  pensive  oziers  dip  their  willowy  weeds, 
And  there  the  wild-cat  purs  amid  her  brood, 
And  trains  them  in  the  sylvan  solitude, 
To  watch  the  squirrel's  leap,  or  mark  the  mink 
Paddling  the  water  by  the  quiet  brink ;  — 
Or  to  out-gaze  the  gray  owl  in  the  dark, 
Or  hear  the  young  fox  practising  to  bark. 

Dark  as  the  frost-nipped  leaves  that  strewed  the 

ground, 

The  Indian  hunter  here  his  shelter  found ; 
Here  cut  his  bow  and  shaped  his  arrows  true, 
Here  built  his  wigwam  and  his  bark  canoe, 
Speared  the  quick  salmon  leaping  up  the  fall, 
And  slew  the  deer  without  the  rifle  ball, 
Here  his  young  squaw  her  cradling  tree  would  choose, 
Singing  her  chant  to  hush  her  swart  pappoose, 
Here  stain  her  quills  and  string  her  trinkets  rude, 
And  weave  her  warrior's  wampum  in  the  wood. 


ON  CONNECTICUT  RIVER.  5 

—  No  more  shall  they  thy  welcome  waters  bless, 
No  more  their  forms  thy  moon-lit  hanks  shall  press, 
No  more  be  heard,  from  mountain  or  from  grove, 
His  whoop  of  slaughter,  or  her  song  of  love. 

Thou  didst  not  shake,  thou  didst  not  shrink  when,  late 
The  mountain-top  shut  down  its  ponderous  gate, 
Tumbling  its  tree-grown  ruins  to  thy  side, 
An  avalanche  of  acres  at  a  slide. 
Nor  dost  thou  stay,  when  winter's  coldest  breath 
Howls   through  the  woods  and  sweeps   along  the 

heath  — 

One  mighty  sigh  relieves  thy  icy  breast, 
And  wakes  thee  from  the  calmness  of  thy  rest. 

Down  sweeps  the  torrent  ice  —  it  may  not  stay 
By  rock  or  bridge,  in  narrow  or  in  bay  — 
Swift,  swifter  to  the  heaving  sea  it  goes, 
And  leaves  thee  dimpling  in  thy  sweet  repose. 

—  Yet  as  the  unharmed  swallow  skims  his  way, 
And  lightly  drops  his  pinions  in  thy  spray, 

So  the  swift  sail  shall  seek  thy  inland  seas, 
And  swell  and  whiten  in  thy  purer  breeze, 
New  paddles  dip  thy  waters,  and  strange  oars 
Feather  thy  wa,ves  and  touch  thy  noble  shores. 

Thy  noble  shores !  where  the  tall  steeple  shines. 
At  mid-day,  higher  than  thy  mountain  pines, 


6  ON  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

Where  the  white  schoolhouse  with  its  daily  drill 
Of  sunburnt  children,  smiles  upon  the  hill, 
Where  the  neat  village  grows  upon  the  eye 
Decked  forth  in  nature's  sweet  simplicity  — 
Where  hard-won  competence,  the  farmer's  wealth, 
Gains  merit,  honor,  and  gives  labor  health, 
Where  Goldsmith's  self  might  send  his  exiled  band 
To  find  a  new  "  Sweet  Auburn  "  in  our  land. 

What  Art  can  execute,  or  Taste  devise, 
Decks  thy  fair  course  and  gladdens  in  thine  eyes  — 
As  broader  sweep  the  bendings  of  thy  stream, 
To  meet  the  southern  Sun's  more  constant  beam. 
Here  cities  rise,  and  sea-washed  commerce  hails 
Thy  shores  and  winds  with  all  her  flapping  sails, 
From  Tropic  isles,  or  from  the  torrid  main  — 
Where  grows  the  grape,  or  sprouts  the  sugar-cane  — 
Or  from  the  haunts,  where  the  striped  haddock  play, 
By  each  cold  northern  bank  and  frozen  bay. 
Here  safe  returned  from  every  stormy  sea, 
Waves  the  striped  flag,  the  mantle  of  the  free, 
—  That  star-lit  flag,  by  all  the  breezes  curled 
Of  yon  vast  deep  whose  waters  grasp  the  world. 

In  what  Arcadian,  what  Utopian  ground 
Are  warmer  hearts  or  manlier  feelings  found, 
More  hospitable  welcome,  or  more  zeal 
To  make  the  curious  "  tarrying  "  stranger  feel 


ON  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

That,  next  to  home,  here  best  may  he  abide, 

To  rest  and  cheer  him  by  the  chimney-side  ; 

Drink  the  hale  Farmer's  cider,  as  he  hears 

From  the  gray  dame  the  tales  of  other  years. 

Cracking  his  shag-barks,  as  the  aged  crone 

—  Mixing  the  true  and  doubtful  into  one  — 

Tells  how  the  Indian  scalped  the  helpless  child, 

And  bore  its  shrieking  mother  to  the  wild, 

Butchered  the  father  hastening  to  his  home, 

Seeking  his  cottage  —  finding  but  his  tomb. 

How  drums,  and  flags,  and  troops  were  seen  on  high, 

Wheeling  and  charging  in  the  northern  sky, 

And  that  she  knew  what  these  wild  tokens  meant, 

When  to  the  Old  French  War  her  husband  went. 

How,  by  the  thunder-blasted  tree,  was  hid 

The  golden  spoils  of  far  famed  Robert  Kidd; 

And  then  the  chubby  grandchild  wants  to  know 

About  the  ghosts  and  witches  long  ago, 

That  haunted  the  old  swamp. 

The  clock  strikes  ten  — 
The  prayer  is  said,  nor  unforgotten  then 
The  stranger  in  their  gates.     A  decent  rule 
Of  Elders  in  thy  puritanic  school. 

When  the  fresh  morning  wakes  him  from  his  dream, 
And  daylight  smiles  on  rock,  and  slope,  and  stream, 
Are  there  not  glossy  curls  and  sunny  eyes, 
As  brightly  lit  and  bluer  than  thy  skies  ; 


ON  CONIVECTICUT  RIVER. 

Voices  as  gentle  as  an  echoed  call, 
And  sweeter  than  the  softened  waterfall 
That  smiles  and  dimples  in  its  whispering  spray, 
Leaping  in  sportive  innocence  away  :  — 
And  lovely  forms,  as  graceful  and  as  gay 
As  wild-brier,  budding  in  an  April  day ; 
—  How  like  the  leaves  —  the  fragrant  leaves  it  bears, 
Their  sinless  purposes  and  simple  cares. 

Stream  of  my  sleeping  Fathers!  when  the  sound 
Of  coming  war  echoed  thy  hills  around, 
How  did  thy  sons  start  forth  from  every  glade, 
Snatching  the  musket  where  they  left  the  spade. 
How  did  their  mothers  urge  them  to  the  fight, 
Their  sisters  tell  them  to  defend  the  right,  — 
How  bravely  did  they  stand,  how  nobly  fall, 
The  earth  their  coffin  and  the  turf  their  pall. 
How  did  the  aged  pastor  light  his  eye, 
When,  to  his  Hock,  he  read  the  purpose  high 
And  stern  resolve,  whate'er  the  toil  may  be, 
To  pledge  life,  name,  fame,  all  —  for  Liberty. 
—  Cold  is  the  hand  that  penned  that  glorious  page  — 
Still  in  the  grave  the  body  of  that  sage 
Whose  lip  of  eloquence  and  heart  of  zeal, 
Made  Patriots  act  and  listening  Statesmen  feel  — 
Brought  thy  Green  Mountains  down  upon  their  foes, 
And  thy  white  summits  melted  of  their  snows, 
While  every  vale  to  which  his  voice  could  come, 
Rang  with  the  fife  and  echoed  to  the  drum. 


ON  CONNECTICUT  RIVER.  9 

Bold  River !  better  suited  are  thy  waves 
To  nurse  the  laurels  clust'ring  round  their  graves, 
Than  many  a  distant  stream,  that  soaks  the  mud 
Where  thy  brave  sons  have  shed  their  gallant  blood. 
And  felt,  beyond  all  other  mortal  pain, 
They  ne'er  should  see  their  happy  home  again. 

Thou  hadst  a  poet  once,  —  and  he  could  tell, 
Most  tunefully,  whate'er  to  thee  befell, 
Could  fill  each  pastoral  reed  upon  thy  shore  — 
—  But  we  shall  hear  his  classic  lays  no  more  ! 
He  loved  thee,  but  he  took  his  aged  way, 
By  Erie's  shore,  and  Perry's  glorious  day, 
To  where  Detroit  looks  out  amidst  the  wood,. 
Remote  beside  the  dreary  solitude. 

Yet  for  his  brow  thy  ivy  leaf  shall  spread, 
Thy  freshest  myrtle  lift  its  berried  head, 
And  our  gnarled  Charter  oak  put  forth  a  bough, 
Whose  leaves  shall  grace  thy  TRUMBULL'S  honored 
brow. 


10 


THE  FALL  OF  NIAGARA. 


Labitur  et  labetur." 


THE  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 

While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 

As  if  GOD  poured  thee  from  his  "  hollow  hand," 

And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front ; 

And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seemed  to  him 

Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 

"The  sound  of  many  waters  "  ;  and  had  bade 

Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 

And  notch  His  cent'ries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime? 
O !  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side ! 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar ! 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  HIM, 
Who  drowned  a  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ?  —  a  light  wave, 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 


MATCHIT  MOODUS. 


A  traveller,  who  accidentally  passed  through  East  Haddam 
made  several  inquiries  as  to  the  "Moodus  noises,"  that  are  pecu 
liar  to  that  part  of  the  country.  Many  particulars  were  related 
to  him  of  their  severity  and  effects,  and  of  the  means  that  had 
been  taken  to  ascertain  their  cause,  and  prevent  their  recur 
rence.  He  was  told  that  the  simple  and  terrified  inhabitants, 
in  the  early  settlement  of  the  town,  applied  to  a  book-learned 
and  erudite  man/rom  England,  by  the  name  of  Doctor  Steele, 
who  undertook,  by  magic,  to  allay  their  terrors  ;  and  for  this 
purpose  took  the  sole  charge  of  a  blacksmith's  shop,  in  which 
he  worked  by  night,  and  from  which  he  excluded  all  admis 
sion,  tightly  stopping  and  darkening  the  place,  to  prevent  any 
prying  curiosity  from  interfering  with  his  occult  operations. 
He  however  so  far  explained  the  cause  of  these  noises  as  to 
say,  that  they  were  owing  to  a  carbuncle,  which  must  have 
grown  to  a  great  size,  in  the  bowels  of  the  rocks ;  and  that  if 
it  could  be  removed,  the  noises  would  cease,  until  another 
should  grow  in  its  place.  The  noises  ceased  —  the  doctor 
departed,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  since.  It  was  supposed 
that  he  took  the  carbuncle  with  him.  Thus  far  was  authentic. 
A  little  girl,  who  had  anxiously  noticed  the  course  of  the 
traveller's  inquiries,  sung  for  his  further  edification  the  fol 
lowing  ballad : 

SEE  you  upon  the  lonely  moor, 
A  crazy  building  rise  ? 


12  MATCHIT  MOODUS. 

No  hand  dares  venture  to  open  the  door  — 
No  footstep  treads  its  dangerous  floor  — 
No  eye  in  its  secrets  pries. 

Now  why  is  each  crevice  stopped  so  tight  ? 

Say,  why  the  bolted  door  ? 
Why  glimmers  at  midnight  the  forge's  light  - 
All  day  is  the  anvil  at  rest,  but  at  night 

The  flames  of  the  furnace  roar? 

Is  it  to  arm  the  horse's  heel, 

That  the  midnight  anvil  rings  ? 
Is  it  to  mould  the  ploughshare's  steel, 
Or  is  it  to  guard  the  wagon's  wheel, 

That  the  smith's  sledge-hammer  swings  ? 

The  iron  is  bent,  and  the  crucible  stands 

With  alchymy  boiling  up ; 
Its  contents  were  mixed  by  unknown  hands, 
And  no  mortal  fire  e'er  kindled  the  brands, 

That  heated  that  cornered  cup. 

O'er  Moodus  river  a  light  has  glanced, 

On  Moodus  hills  it  shone  ; 
On  the  granite  rocks  the  rays  have  danced, 
And  upward  those  creeping  lights  advanced, 

Till  they  met  on  the  highest  stone. 


MATCHIT  MOODUS.  13 

O  that  is  the  very  wizard  place, 

And  now  is  the  wizard  hour, 
By  the  light  that  was  conjured  up,  to  trace 
Ere  the  star  that  falls  can  run  its  race, 

The  seat  of  the  earthquake's  power. 

By  that  unearthly  light,  I  see 

A  figure  strange  alone  — 
With  magic  circlet  on  his  knee, 
And  decked  with  Satan's  symbols,  he 

Seeks  for  the  hidden  stone. 

Now  upward  goes  that  gray  old  man, 

With  mattock,  har,  and  spade  — 
The  summit  is  gained,  and  the  toil  began, 
And  deep  by  the  rock  where  the  wild  lights  ran, 

The  magic  trench  is  made. 

Loud  and  yet  louder  was  the  groan 

That  sounded  wide  and  far  ; 
And  deep  and  hollow  was  the  moan, 
That  rolled  around  the  bedded  stone, 

Where  the  workman  plied  his  bar. 

Then  upward  streamed  the  brilliant's  light, 

It  streamed  o'er  crag  and  stone  :  — 
Dim  looked  the  stars,  and  the  moon,  that  night; 


14  MATCHIT  MOODUS. 

But  when  morning  came  in  her  glory  bright, 
The  man  and  the  jewel  were  gone. 

But  woe  to  the  bark  in  which  he  flew 

From  Moodus'  rocky  shore  ; 
Woe  to  the  captain,  and  woe  to  the  crew, 
That  ever  the  breath  of  life  they  drew, 

When  that  dreadful  freight  they  bore. 

Where  is  that  crew  and  vessel  now  ? 

Tell  me  their  state  who  can  ? 
The  wild  waves  dash  o'er  their  sinking  bow  — 
Down,  down  to  the  fathomless  depths  they  go, 

To  sleep  with  a  sinful  man. 

The  carbuncle  lies  in  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Beneath  the  mighty  wave  ; 
But  the  light  shines  upward  so  gloriously, 
That  the  sailor  looks  pale,  and  forgets  his  glee, 

When  he  crosses  the  wizard's  grave. 

"  In  the  course  of  our  desultory  reading  we  have  noted  sev 
eral  testimonies  of  authors  and  travellers  relative  to  singular 
noises  in  the  mountains,  which  would  seem  almost  to  cor 
roborate  the  hypothesis  of  the  Matchit  Moodus  Alchymist. 
VASCONCELLOS,  a  Jesuit  of  some  repute,  describes  similar 
noises  which  he  heard  in  Brazil.  They  resembled  the  dis 
charge  of  heavy  artillery.  In  the  Terra  de  Piratumingo  the 
Indians  told  him  that  the  noise  he  heard  was  an  explosion  of 


MATCHIT  MOODUS.  15 

stones;  —  'and  it  was  so,'  said  he,  '  for  after  some  days  the 
place  was  found  where  a  rock  had  burst,  and  from  its  entrails, 
with  the  report  which  we  had  heard  like  groans,  had  sent  forth 
a  little  treasure.  This  was  a  sort  of  nut,  about  the  size  of  a 
bull's  heart  —  full  of  jewelry  of  different  colors,  some  white 
—  some  transparent  crystal,  others  of  a  fine  red  and  some 
between  red  and  white;  imperfect  as  it  seemed.  All  these 
were  placed  in  order  like  the  grains  of  a  pomegranate,  within 
a  case  or  shell  harder  than  iron,  which  was  broken  to  pieces 
by  the  explosion.'  In  speaking  of  the  adjoining  province  of 
Guayra,  TECHO  says  it  is  famous  for  a  sort  of  stones,  which 
nature  after  a  wonderful  manner  produces  in  an  oval  stone 
case,  about  the  bigness  of  a  man's  head  :  —  these  stones  lying 
under  ground  until  they  arrive  to  a  certain  maturity,  fly  like 
bombs  in  pieces  about  the  air,  with  much  noise.  In  an  old 
account  of  Teixeira's  voyage  down  the  Orellana,  the  writer 
says,  that '  the  Indians  assured  them,  that  horrible  noises  were 
heard  in  the  Lena  de  Paraguaxo  from  time  to  time,  which  is 
a  certain  sign  that  this  mountain  contains  stones  of  great  value 
in  its  entrails.'  HUMBOLDT  himself  notices  this  phenomenon 
as  occurring  in  the  hills  near  Mexico,  —  a  subterraneous  noise 
like  the  roar  of  artillery.  As  coal  abounds  in  those  hills,  he 
inquires  whether  this  does  not  announce  a  disengagement  of 
hydrogen  produced  by  a  bed  of  coal  in  a  state  of  inflammation. 
In  the  account  of  the  '  Yellow  Stone  Expedition '  of  Lewis 
and  Clarke,  in  1804, 1805,  and  1806,  we  are  told,  that,  near  the 
falls  of  the  Missouri,  several  loud  reports  were  heard  among 
the  mountains  resembling  precisely  the  report  of  a  six-pounder. 
The  Indians  had  before  told  them  of  these  noises.  The  Paw- 
nee  and  Ricaras  tribes  of  Indians  also  told  the  exploring  party, 
that  a  similar  noise  was  frequently  heard  among  the  moun 
tains  to  the  westward  of  their  country,  which  was  caused, 
they  said,  by  the  bursting  of  the  rich  mines  confined  in  the 
bosom  of  the  earth."  —  J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


16 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COMMODORE  OLIVER  H. 
PERRY. 


"By  strangers  honored,  and  by  strangers  mourned." 


How  sad  the  note  of  that  funereal  drum, 
That 's  muffled  by  indifference  to  the  dead ! 

And  how  reluctantly  the  echoes  come, 

On  air  that  sighs  not  o'er  that  stranger's  bed, 
Who  sleeps  with  death  alone.— O'er  his  young  head 

His  native  breezes  never  more  shall  sigh  ; 

On  his  lone  grave  the  careless  step  shall  tread, 

And  pestilential  vapors  soon  shall  dry 

Each   shrub   that  buds   around  —  each  flower  that 
blushes  nigh. 

Let  Genius,  poising  on  her  full-fledged  wing, 
Fill  the  charmed  air  with  thy  deserved  praise : 

Of  war,  and  blood,  and  carnage  let  her  sing, 
Of  victory  and  glory  !  —  let  her  gaze 
On   the    dark   smoke    that  shrouds    the   cannon's 
blaze  — 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COMMODORE  PERRY.  17 

On  the  red  foam  that  crests  the  bloody  billow  ; 

Then  mourn  the  sad  close  of  thy  shortened  days  — 
Place  on  thy  country's  brow  the  weeping  willow, 
And  plant  the  laurels  thick,  around  thy  last  cold  pil 
low. 

No  sparks  of  Grecian  fire  to  me  belong  : 

Alike  uncouth  the  poet  and  the  lay  ; 
Unskilled  to  turn  the  mighty  tide  of  song, 

He  floats  along  the  current  as  he  may, 

The  humble  tribute  of  a  tear  to  pay. 
Another  hand  may  choose  another  theme, 

May  sing  of  Nelson's  last  and  brightest  day, 
Of  Wolfe's  unequalled  and  unrivalled  fame, 
The  wave  of  Trafalgar  —  the  field  of  Abraham. 

But  if  the  wild  winds  of  thy  western  lake 

Might  teach  a  harp,  that  fain  would  mourn  the  brave, 
And  sweep  those  strings  the  minstrel  may  not  wake, 

Or  give  an  echo  from  some  secret  cave 

That  opens  on  romantic  Erie's  wave, 
The  feeble  cord  would  not  be  swept  in  vain  ; 

And  though  the  sound  might  never  reach  thy  grave, 
Yet  there  are  spirits  here,  that  to  the  strain 
Would  send  a  still  small  voice  responsive  back  again. 

And  though  the  yellow  plague  infest  the  air  ; 
Though  noxious  vapors  blight  the  turf,  where  rest 


18  A  MARINER'S   SONG. 

The  manly  form,  and  the  bold  heart  of  war  ; 

Yet  should  that  deadly  isle  afar  be  blest ! 

For  the  fresh  breezes  of  thy  native  west 
Should  seek  and  sigh  around  thy  early  tomb, 

Moist  with  the  tears  of  those  who  loved  thee  best, 
Scented  with  sighs  of  love  —  there  grief  should  come, 
And  mem'ry  guard  thy  grave,  and  mourn  thy  hapless 
doom. 

It  may  not  be.     Too  feeble  is  the  hand, 

Too  weak  and  frail  the  harp,  the  lay  too  brief 
To  speak  the  sorrows  of  a  mourning  land, 

Weeping  in  silence  for  her  youthful  chief. 
Yet  may  an  artless  tear  proclaim  more  grief 
Than  mock  affection's  arts  can  ever  show  ; 

A  heart-felt  sigh  can  give  a  sad  relief, 
Which  all  the  sobs  of  counterfeited  woe, 
Tricked  off  in  foreign  garb,  can  ever  hope  to  know. 


A  MARINER'S  SONG. 


THOUGH  now  we  are  sluggish  and  lazy  on  shore, 
Yet  soon  shall  we  be  where  the  wild  waters  roar; 
Where  the  wind  through  the  hoarse  rattling  cordage 

shall  rave, 
And  fling  the  white  foam  from  the  top  of  the  wave. 


EPITHALAMIUM.  19 

Yes,  soon  o'er  the  waters  the  Essex  shall  sweep, 
And  bear  all  the  thunders  of  war  o'er  the  deep  ; 
While  the  hands  that  are  hard,  and  the  hearts  that  are 

brave. 
Shall  give  the  bold  frigate  the  top  of  the  wave. 

And  though  some  one  among  us  may  never  return, 
His  comrades  shall  sorrow,  his  messmates  shall  mourn; 
Though  his  body  may  sink  to  a  watery  grave, 
His  spirit  shall  rise  to  the  top  of  the  wave. 

Then  a  health  to  John  Adams !  and  long  may  he  reign 
O'er  the  mountain,  the  valley,  the  shore,  and  the  main; 
May  he  have  the  same  breeze,  which  to  WASHINGTON 

gave, 
In  his  cruise  o'er  the  waters,  the  top  of  the  wave. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 


I  SAW  two  clouds  at  morning, 
Tinged  with  the  rising  sun ; 

And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 
And  mingled  into  one  : 

I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  blest, 

It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 


20  INTRODUCTION  TO  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

I  saw  two  summer  currents, 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 

And  join  their  course,  with  silent  force, 
In  peace  each  other  greeting  : 

Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of  green, 

While  dimpling  eddies  played  between. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 
Till  life's  last  pulse  shall  beat ; 

Like  summer's  beam,  and  summer's  stream, 
Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 

A  calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease  — 

A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 


THE  wanton  boy  that  sports  in  May, 
Among  the  wild  flowers,  blooming,  gay, 
With  laughing  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks, 
The  brightest,  freshest,  fairest  seeks, 
And  there,  delightedly,  he  lingers, 
To  pluck  them  with  his  rosy  fingers, 
While,  like  the  bee,  he  roves  among 
Their  sweets,  and  hums  his  little  song. 


THE   SHAD   SPIRIT.  21 

He  weaves  a  garland  rich  and  rare, 
And  decorates  his  yellow  hair : 
The  rose,  and  pink,  and  violet, 
And  honeysuckle,  there  are  set ; 
The  darkest  cypress  in  the  glade 
Lends  to  the  wreath  its  solemn  shade, 
And  sadly  smiles,  when  lighted  up 
With  daisy,  and  with  butter-cup. 

Thus  fair  and  bright  each  flower  should  be, 
Culled  from  the  field  of  Poesy  ; 
But  with  the  lightsome  and  the  gay, 
Be  mixed  the  moralizing  lay 
Of  those,  who,  like  the  cypress  bough, 
A  thoughtful  shade  of  sorrow  throw 
On  transient  buds,  or  flowers  light, 
That  smile  at  morn,  and  fade  at  night. 


THE  SHAD  SPIRIT. 


There  is  a  superstition  in  many  places,  which  bears}  that 
Shad  are  conducted  from  the  gulf  of  Mexico  into  Connecticut 
river  by  a  kind  of  Yankee  bogle,  in  the  shape  of  a  bird,  prop 
erly  called  the  SHAD  SPIRIT.  It  makes  its  appearance,  an 
nually,  about  a  week  before  the  Shad,  calls  the  fish,  and  gives 
warning  to  the  fishermen  to  mend  their  nets.  It  is  supposed, 


22  THE  SHAD   SPIRIT. 

that  without  his  assistance,  the  nets  would  be  swept  to  no 
purpose,  and  the  fisherman  would  labor  in  vain. 


Now  drop  the  bolt,  and  securely  nail 

The  horse-shoe  over  the  door  ; 
'T  is  a  wise  precaution,  and  if  it  should  fail 

It  never  failed  before. 

Know  ye  the  shepherd  that  gathers  his  flock, 
Where  the  gales  of  the  Equinox  blow, 

From  each  unknown  reef,  and  sunken  rock, 
In  the  gulf  of  Mexico  ; 

While  the  monsoons  growl,  and  the  trade-winds  bark, 

And  the  watch-dogs  of  the  surge 
Pursue  through  the  wild  waves  the  ravenous  shark, 

That  prowls  around  their  charge  ? 

To  fair  Connecticut's  northernmost  source, 

O'er  sand-bars,  rapids,  and  falls, 
The  Shad  Spirit  holds  his  onward  course, 

With  the  flocks  which  his  whistle  calls. 

O  how  shall  he  know  where  he  went  before  ? 

Will  he  wander  around  for  ever  ? 
The  last  year's  shad- heads  shall  shine  on  the  shore, 

To  light  him  up  the  river. 


THE  TREE  TOAD.  23 

And  well  can  he  tell  the  very  time 

To  undertake  his  task  — 
When  the  pork  barrel 's  low,  he  sits  on  the  chine, 

And  drums  on  the  cider  cask. 

Though  the  wind  is  light,  the  wave  is  white, 
With  the  fleece  of  the  flock  that 's  near ; 

Like  the  breath  of  the  breeze,  he  comes  over  the  seas, 
And  faithfully  leads  them  here. 

And  now  he  's  passed  the  bolted  door, 

Where  the  rusted  horse-shoe  clings  ; 
So  carry  the  nets  to  the  nearest  shore, 

And  take  what  the  Shad  Spirit  brings. 


THE  TREE  TOAD. 


I  AM  a  jolly  tree  toad,  upon  a  chestnut  tree  ; 

I  chirp,  because  I  know  that  the  night  was  made  for  me; 

The  young  bat  flies  above  me,  the  glow-worm  shines 

below, 
And  the  owlet  sits  to  hear  me,  and  half  forgets  his 

woe. 

I  'm  lighted  by  the  fire-fly,  in  circles  wheeling  round  ; 
The  caty-did  is  silent,  and  listens  to  the  sound  ; 


24  THE  TREE  TOAD. 

The    jack-o'-lantern   leads   the    way-worn  traveller 

astray, 
To  hear  the  tree  toad's  melody  until  the  break  of  day. 

The  harvest  moon  hangs  over  me,  and  smiles  upon 
the  streams  ; 

The  lights  dance  upward  from  the  north,  and  cheer 
me  with  their  beams  ; 

The  dew  of  heaven,  it  comes  to  me  as  sweet  as  beau 
ty's  tear; 

The  stars  themselves  shoot  down  to  see  what  music 
we  have  here. 

The  winds  around  me  whisper  to  ev'ry  flower  that 
blows, 

To  droop  their  heads,  call  in  their  sweets,  and  every 
leaf  to  close  ; 

The  whip-poor-will  sings  to  his  mate  the  mellow  mel 
ody  : 

"  O  !  hark,  and  hear  the  notes  that  flow  from  yonder 
chestnut  tree." 

Ye  caty-dids  and  whip-poor-wills,  come  listen  to  me 

now ; 

I  am  a  jolly  tree  toad  upon  a  chestnut  bough  ; 
I  chirp  because  I  know  that  the  night  was  made  for 

me  — 
And  I  close  my  proposition  with  a  Q.  E.  D. 


SPRING. 

TO    MISS    


OTHER  poets  may  muse  on  thy  beauties,  and  sing 
Of  thy  birds,  and  thy  flowers,  and  thy  perfumes,  sweet 

Spring ! 

They  may  wander  enraptured  by  hills  and  by  moun 
tains, 

Or  pensively  pore  by  thy  fresh  gushing  fountains  ; 
Or  sleep  in  the  moonlight  by  favorite  streams, 
Inspired  by  the  whispering  sylphs  in  their  dreams, 
And  awake  from  their  slumbers  to  hail  the  bright  sun, 
When  shining  in  dew  the  fresh  morning  comes  on. 

But  I  've  wet  shoes  and  stockings,  a  cold  in  my 

throat, 

The  head-ache,  and  tooth-ache,  and  quinsy  to  boot ; 
No  dew  from  the  cups  of  the  flow'rets  I  sip, — 
'T  is  nothing  but  boneset  that  moistens  my  lip ; 
Not  a  cress  from  the  spring  or  the  brook  can  be  had: 
At  morn,  noon,  and  night,  I  get  nothing  but  shad  ; 
My  whispering  sylph  is  a  broad-shouldered  lass, 
And  my  bright  sun  —  a  warming-pan  made  out  of 

brass ! 


26  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  WASHINGTON. 

Then  be  thou  my  genius  ;  for  what  can  I  do, 
When  I  cannot  see  nature,  but  copy  from  you  ? 
If  Spring  be  the  season  of  beauty  and  youth, 
Of  hope  and  of  loveliness,  kindness,  and  truth  ; 
Of  all  that 's  inspiring,  and  all  that  is  bright, 
And  all  that  is  what  we  call  just  about  right  — 
Why  need  I  expose  my  sick  muse  to  the  weather, 
When  by  going  to  you  she  would  find  all  together? 


ON  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  WASHINGTON. 


Hie  cinis  —  ubique  fama.' 


BEHOLD  the  mossed  corner-stone  dropped  from  the 

wall, 
And  gaze  on  its  date  —  but  remember  its  fall, 

And  hope  that  some  hand  may  replace  it ; 
Think  not  of  its  pride  when  with  pomp  it  was  laid, 
But  weep  for  the  ruin  its  absence  has  made, 

And  the  lapse  of  the  years  that  efface  it. 

Mourn  WASHINGTON'S  death,  when  ye  think  of  his 

birth, 
And  far  from  your  thoughts  be  the  lightness  of  mirth, 


THE  BfRTHDAY  OF  WASHINGTON.  27 

And  far  from  your  cheek  be  its  smile. 
To-day  he  was  born  —  't  was  a  loan  — •  not  a  gift : 
The  dust  of  his  body  is  all  that  is  left, 

To  hallow  his  funeral  pile. 

Flow  gently,  Potomac  !  thou  washest  away 

The  sands  where  he  trod,  and  the  turf  where  he  lay, 

When  youth  brushed  his  cheek  with  her  wing  ; 
Breathe  softly,  ye  wild  winds,  that  circle  around 
That  dearest,  and  purest,  and  holiest  ground, 

Ever  pressed  by  the  footprints  of  Spring. 

Each  breeze  be  a  sigh,  and  each  dewdrop  a  tear, 
Each  wave  be  a  whispering  monitor  near, 

To  remind  the  sad  shore  of  his  story  ; 
And  darker,  and  softer,  and  sadder  the  gloom 
Of  that  evergreen  mourner,  that  bends  o'er  the  tomb 

Where  WASHINGTON  sleeps  in  his  glory. 

Great  GOD  !  when  the  spirit  of  freedom  shall  fail, 
And  the  sons  of  the  Pilgrims,  in  sorrow,  bewail 

Their  religion  and  liberty  gone  ; 
O !  send  back  a  form  that  shall  stand  as  he  stood, 
Unsubdued  by  the  tempest,  unmoved  by  the  flood ; 

And  to  THEE  be  the  glory  alone. 


28 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  A  LATE  OCCURRENCE. 


On  the  21st  of  February,  1823,  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  as 
the  mail  stage  from  Hartford  to  New  Haven,  with  three  pas 
sengers,  was  crossing  the  bridge  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  near 
Durham,  the  bridge  was  carried  away  by  the  ice,  and  the  stage 
was  precipitated  down  a  chasm  of  twenty  feet.  Two  of  the 
passengers  were  drowned :  one  of  them  had  been  long  from 
home,  and  was  on  his  way  to  see  his  friends.  This  occurrence 
is  mentioned  as  explanatory  of  the  following  lines. 


"How  slow  we  drive !  —  but  yet  the  hour  will  come, 
When  friends  shall  greet  me  with  affection's  kiss  ; 

When,  seated  at  my  boyhood's  happy  home, 
I  shall  enjoy  a  mild,  contented  bliss, 
Not  often  met  with  in  a  world  like  this  ! 

Then  I  shall  see  that  brother,  youngest  born, 
I  used  to  play  with  in  my  sportiveness  ; 

And,  from  a  mother's  holiest  look,  shall  learn 

A  parent's  thanks  to  God,  for  a  loved  son's  return. 

"  And  there  is  one,  who,  with  a  downcast  eye 
Will  be  the  last  to  welcome  me  ;  but  yet 

My  memory  tells  me  of  a  parting  sigh, 
And  of  a  lid  with  tears  of  sorrow  wet, 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  A  LATE  OCCURRENCE.        29 

And  how  she  bade  me  never  to  forget 
A  friend  —  and  blushed.  —  Oil  shall  see  again 

The  same  kind  look  I  saw,  when  last  we  met, 
And  parted.     Tell  me  then  that  life  is  vain  — 
That  joy,  if  met  with  once,  is  seldom  met  again." 


*         *         See  ye  not  the  falling,  fallen  mass  ? 

Hark  !  hear  ye  not  the  drowning  swimmer's  cry  ? 
Look  on  the  ruins  of  the  desperate  pass ! 

Gaze  at  the  hurried  ice  that  rushes  by, 

Bearing  a  freight  of  woe  and  agony, 
To  that  last  haven  where  we  all  must  go.  — 

Resistless  as  the  stormy  clouds  that  fly 
Above  our  reach,  is  that  dark  stream  below  !  — 
May  peace  be  in  its  ebb  —  there  's  ruin  in  its  flow. 


30 


ON  A  LATE  LOSS. 


He  shall  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept." 


THE  breath  of  air  that  stirs  the  harp's  soft  string, 

Floats  on  to  join  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm ; 
The  drops  of  dew  exhaled  from  flowers  of  spring, 

Rise  and  assume  the  tempest's  threatening  form ; 
The  first  mild  beam  of  morning's  glorious  sun, 

Ere  night,  is  sporting  in  the  lightning's  flash  ; 
And  the  smooth  stream,  that  flows  in  quiet  on, 

Moves  but  to  aid  the  overwhelming  dash 
That  wave  and  wind  can  muster,  when  the  might 

Of  earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  and  sky  unite. 

So  science  whispered  in  thy  charmed  ear, 
And  radiant  learning  beckoned  thee  away. 

The  breeze  was  music  to  thee,  and  the  clear 
Beam  of  thy  morning  promised  a  bright  day. 


*  Professor  FISHER,  lost  in  the  Albion,  off  the  coast  of 
Kinsale;  Ireland. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  REV.  LEVI  PARSONS.      31 

And  they  have  wrecked  thee  !  —  But  there  is  a  shore 
Where  storms  are  hushed  —  where  tempests  never 
rage; 

Where  angry  skies  and  blackening  seas,  no  more 
With  gusty  strength  their  roaring  warfare  wage. 

By  thee  its  peaceful  margent  shall  be  trod  — 
Thy  home  is  Heaven,  and  thy  friend  is  God. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  REV.  LEVI  PARSONS.* 

GREEN  as  Machpelah's  honored  field, 
Where  Jacob  and  where  Leah  lie, 

Where  Sharon's  shrubs  their  roses  yield, 
And  Carmel's  branches  wave  on  high  ; 

So  honored,  so  adorned,  so  green, 

Young  martyr !  shall  thy  grave  be  seen. 

O  !  how  unlike  the  bloody  bed, 

Where  pride  and  passion  seek  to  lie  ; 

Where  faith  is  not,  where  hope  can  shed 
No  tear  of  holy  sympathy  ! 

There  withering  thoughts  shall  drop  around, 

In  dampness  on  the  lonely  mound. 


*  He  was   associated   with   the   Rev.  Pliny  Fisk,    on  the 
Palestine  mission,  and  died  at  Alexandria,   February   18th, 

1822. 


32      ON  THE  PROJECT  OF  AFRICAN  COLONIZATION. 


On  Jordan's  weeping  willow  trees, 

Another  holy  harp  is  hung  : 
It  murmurs  in  as  soft  a  breeze, 

As  e'er  from  Gilead's  balm  was  flung, 
When  Judah's  tears,  in  Babel's  stream 
Dropped,  and  when  "Zion  was  their  theme." 

So  may  the  harp  of  Gabriel  sound 
In  the  high  heaven,  to  welcome  thee, 

When,  rising  from  the  holy  ground 
Of  Nazareth  and  Galilee, 

The  saints  of  God  shall  take  their  flight, 

In  rapture,  to  the  realms  of  light. 


ON  THE   PROJECT  OF  AFRICAN  COLONIZA- 
TION. 


"  Magna  componere  parvis." 


ALL  sights  are  fair  to  the  recovered  blind  — 
All  sounds  are  music  to  the  deaf  restored  — 

The  lame,  made  whole,  leaps  like  the  sporting  hind ; 
And  the  sad,  bowed-down  sinner,  with  his  load 


TO  THE  MARQUIS  LA  FAYETTE. 

Of  shame  and  sorrow,  when  he  cuts  the  cord, 
And  drops  the  pack  it  bound,  is  free  again 

In  the  light  yoke  and  burden  of  his  Lord  : 
Thus,  with  the  birthright  of  his  fellow  man, 
Sees,  hears,  and  feels  at  once,  the  righted  African. 

'T  is  somewhat  like  the  burst  from  death  to  life  — 

From  the  grave's  cerements  to  the  robes  of  Heaven ; 
From  sin's  dominion,  and  from  passion's  strife, 

To  the  pure  freedom  of  a  soul  forgiven ! 

When  all  the  bonds  of  death  and  hell  are  riven, 
And  mortals  put  on  immortality  ; 

When  fear,  and  care,  and  grief  away  are  driven, 
And  Mercy's  hand  has  turned  the  golden  key, 
And  Mercy's  voice  has  said,  "  Rejoice  —  thy  soul  is 
free ! " 


TO  THE  MARQUIS  LA  FAYETTE. 


WE  '11  search  the  earth,  and  search  the  sea, 

To  cull  a  gallant  wreath  for  thee  ; 

And  every  field  for  freedom  fought, 

And  every  mountain  height,  where  aught 

Of  liberty  can  yet  be  found, 

Shall  be  our  blooming  harvest  ground. 


34  TO  THE   MARQUIS  LA  FAYETTE. 

aurels  in  garlands  hang-  upon 
Thermopylae  and  Marathon  — 
On  Bannockburn  the  thistle  grows  — 
On  Runny  Mead  the  wild  rose  blows  ; 
And  on  the  banks  of  Boyne,  its  leaves 
Green  Erin's  shamrock  wildly  weaves. 
In  France,  in  sunny  France,  we  '11  get 
The  fleur-de-lys  and  mignonette, 
From  every  consecrated  spot 
Where  lies  a  martyred  Huguenot ; 
And  cull,  even  here,  from  many  a  field, 

And  many  a  rocky  height, 
Bays  that  our  vales  and  mountains  yield, 

Where  men  have  met,  to  fight 
For  law,  and  liberty,  and  life, 
And  died  in  freedom's  holy  strife. 

Below  Atlantic  seas  —  below 
The  waves  of  Erie  and  Champlain, 

The  sea-grass  and  the  corals  grow 
In  rostral  trophies  round  the  slain ; 

And  we  can  add,  to  form  thy  crown, 

Some  branches  worthy  thy  renown  ! 

Long  may  the  chaplet  flourish  bright, 

And  borrow  from  the  Heavens  its  light. 

As  with  a  cloud,  that  circles  round 
A  star,  when  other  stars  have  set, 

With  glory  shall  thy  brow  be  bound ; 


MANIAC'S  SONG.  35 

With  glory  shall  thy  head  be  crowned  ; 

With  glory,  starlike,  cinctured  yet ! 
For  earth,  and  air,  and  sky,  and  sea, 
Shall  yield  a  glorious  wreath  to  thee. 


MANIAC'S  SONG. 


I  CAN  but  smile  when  others  weep, 
I  can  but  weep  when  others  smile  ; 

O  !  let  me  in  this  bosom  keep 
The  secret  of  my  heart  awhile. 

My  form  was  fair,  my  step  was  light, 
As  ever  tripped  the  dance  along  ; 

My  cheek  was  smooth,  my  eye  was  bright  — 
My  thought  was  wild,  my  heart  was  young. 

And  he  I  loved  would  laugh  with  glee, 
And  every  heart  but  mine  was  glad ; 

He  had  a  smile  for  all  but  me  ; 
O !  he  was  gay,  and  I  was  sad ! 

Now,  I  have  lost  my  blooming  health, 
And  joy,  and  hope,  no  more  abide  ; 

And  wildering  fancies  come  by  stealth, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  shifting  tide. 


36  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 

They  say  he  wept,  when  he  was  told 

That  I  was  sad  and  sorrowful ; 
That  on  my  wrist  the  chain  was  cold  — 

That  at  my  heart  the  blood  was  dull. 

They  fear  I  'm  crazed  —  they  need  not  fear, 
For  smiles  are  false,  and  tears  are  true  ; 

I  better  love  to  see  a  tear, 
Than  all  the  smiles  I  ever  knew. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  BROCKDEN 
BROWN. 


WE  seek  not  mossy  bank,  or  whispering  stream, 
Or  pensive  shade,  in  twilight  softness  decked, 

Or  dewy  canopy  of  flowers,  or  beam 
Of  autumn's  sun,  by  various  foliage  checked. 

Our  sweetest  river,  and  our  loveliest  glen, 
Our  softest  waterfalls,  just  heard  afar, 

Our  sunniest  slope,  or  greenest  hillock,  when 
It  takes  its  last  look  at  the  evening  star, 

May  suit  some  softer  soul.    But  thou  wert  fit 
To  tread  our  mighty  mountains,  and  to  mark, 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN.  37 

In  untracked  woods,  the  eagle's  pinions  flit 
O'er  roaring  cataracts  and  chasms  dark : 

To  talk  and  walk  with  Nature,  in  her  wild 
Attire,  her  boldest  form,  her  sternest  mood  ; 

To  be  her  own  enthusiastic  child, 
And  seek  her  in  her  awful  solitude, 

There,  when  through  stormy  clouds,  the  struggling 
moon 

On  some  wolf-haunted  rock,  shone  cold  and  clear, 
Thou  couldst  commune,  inspired  by  her  alone, 

With  all  her  works  of  wonder  and  of  fear. 

Now  thou  art  gone,  and  who  thy  walks  among, 
Shall  rove,  and  meditate,  and  muse  on  thee  ? 

No  whining  rhy raster  with  his  schoolboy  song, 
May  wake  thee  with  his  muling  minstrelsy ! 

Some  western  muse,  if  western  muse  there  be, 
When  the  rough  wind  in  clouds  has  swathed  her 
form, 

Shall  boldly  wind  her  wintry  horn  for  thee, 
And  tune  her  gusty  music  to  the  storm. 

The  cavern's  echoes,  and  the  forest's  voice, 
Shall  chime  in  concord  to  the  waking  tone  ; 

And  winds  and  waters,  with  perpetual  noise, 
For  thee  shall  make  their  melancholy  moan. 


LORD  EXMOUTH'S  VICTORY  AT  ALGIERS. 
1816. 


"Arma  virumque  cano." 


THE  sun  looked  bright  upon  the  morning  tide  : 

Light  played  the  breeze  along  the  whispering  shore, 
And  the  blue  billow  arched  its  head  of  pride, 

As  'gainst  the  rock  its  frothy  front  it  bore  ; 

The  clear  bright  dew  fled  hastily  before 
The  morning's  sun,  and  glittered  in  his  rays  ; 

Aloft  the  early  lark  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  cheerful  nature  glorified  the  ways 
Of  God,  and  mutely  sang  her  joyous  notes  of  praise. 

The  freshening  breeze,  the  sporting  wave, 
Their  own  impartial  greeting  gave 

To  Christian  and  to  Turk  ; 
But  both  prepared  to  break  the  charm 
Of  peace,  with  war's  confused  alarm  — 
And  ready  each,  for  combat  warm, 

Commenced  the  bloody  work. 


LORD  EXMOUTH'S  VICTORY  AT  ALGIERS.  39 

For  England's  might  was  on  the  seas, 
With  red  cross  flapping  in  the  breeze, 

And  streamer  floating  light ; 
While  the  pale  crescent,  soon  to  set, 
Waved  high  on  tower  and  minaret, 
And  all  the  pride  of  Mahomet 
Stood  ready  for  the  fight. 

Then  swelled  the  noise  of  battle  high  ; 
The  warrior's  shout,  the  coward's  cry, 

Rung  round  the  spacious  bay. 
Fierce  was  the  strife,  and  ne'er  before 
Had  old  Numidia's  rocky  shore 
Been  deafened  with  such  hideous  roar, 

As  on  that  bloody  day. 

It  seemed  as  if  that  earth-born  brood, 
Which,  poets  say,  once  warred  on  God, 

Had  risen  from  the  sea ;  — 
As  if  again  they  boldly  strove 
To  seize  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove, 
And  o'er  Olympian  powers  to  prove 

Their  own  supremacy. 

What  though  the  sun  has  sunk  to  rest  ? 
What  though  the  clouds  of  smoke  invest 

The  capes  of  Matisou  ? 
Still  by  the  flash  each  sees  his  foe, 


40  LORD  EXMOUTH'S  VICTORY  AT  ALGIERS. 

And,  dealing  round  him  death  and  woe, 
With  shot  for  shot,  and  blow  for  blow, 
Fights  —  to  his  country  true. 

Each  twinkling  star  looked  down  to  see 
The  pomp  of  England's  chivalry, 

The  pride  of  Briton's  crown  ! 
While  ancient  ./Etna  raised  his  head, 
Disgorging  from  his  unknown  bed 
A  fire,  that  round  each  hero  shed 

A  halo  of  renown. 

The  dying  sailor  cheered  his  crew, 
While  thick  around  the  death-shot  flew  ; 

And  glad  was  he  to  see 
Old  England's  flag  still  streaming  high,  — 
Her  cannon  speaking  to  the  sky, 
And  telling  all  the  powers  on  high, 

Of  Exmouth's  victory  ! 

The  crescent  wanes  —  the  Turkish  might 
Is  vanquished  in  the  bloody  fight, 

The  Pirate's  race  is  run  ;  — 
Thy  shouts  are  hushed,  and  all  is  still 
On  tower,  and  battlement,  and  hill, 
No  loud  command  — no  answer  shrill  — 

Algiers  !  thy  day  is  done  ! 


WRITTEN  FOR  A  LADY'S  COMMONPLACE-BOOK.     41 

The  slumb'ring  tempest  swelled  its  breath, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  field  of  death, 

And  o'er  the  waves  of  gore, 
Above  the  martial  trumpet's  tone, 
Above  the  wounded  soldier's  moan, 
Above  the  dying  sailor's  groan, 

Raised  its  terrific  roar. 

Speed  swift,  ye  gales,  and  bear  along 
This  burden  for  the  poet's  song, 

O'er  continent  and  sea  : 
Tell  to  the  world  that  Britain's  hand 
Chastised  the  misbelieving  band, 
And  overcame  the  Paynim  land 

In  glorious  victory. 


WRITTEN   FOR  A   LADY'S   COMMONPLACE- 
BOOK. 


AH  !  who  can  imagine  what  plague  and  what  bothers 
He  feels,  who  sits  down  to  write  verses  for  others ! 
His  pen  must  be  mended,  his  inkstand  be  ready, 
His  paper  laid  square,  and  his  intellects  steady  ; 
And  then  for  a  subject  —  No,  that 's  not  the  way, 
For  genuine  poets  don't  care  what  they  say, 


42     WRITTEN  FOR  A  LADY'S  COMMONPLACE-BOOK. 

But  how  they  shall  say  it.     So  now  for  a  measure, 
That 's  suited  alike  to  your  taste  and  my  leisure. 
For  instance,  if  you  were  a  matron  of  eighty, 
The  verse  should  be  dignified,  solemn,  and  weighty; 
And  luckless  the  scribbler  who  had  not  the  tact, 
To  make  every  line  a  sheer  matter  of  fact. 
Or  if  you  were  a  stiff,  worn-out  spinster,  too  gouty 
To  make  a  good  sylph,  and  too  sour  for  a  beauty  ; 
Too  old  for  a  flirt,  and  too  young  to  confess  it ; 
Too  good  to  complain  of  't,  and  too  bad  to  bless  it ; 
The  muse  should  turn  out  some  unblamable  sonnet, 
And  mutter  blank  verse  in  her  comments  upon  it  : 
Demure  in  her  walk,  should  look  down  to  her  shoe, 
And  pick  the  dry  pathway,  for  fear  of  the  dew. 

But  for  7/ow,  she  shall  trip  it,  wherever  she  goes, 
As  light  and  fantastic  as  L' Allegro's  toes  ; 
Wade,  swim,  fly,  or  scamper,  full-fledged  and  webb- 

footed, 

Or  on  Pegasus  mounted,  well  spurred  and  well  booted, 
With  martingale  fanciful,  crupper  poetic, 
Saddle  cloth  airy,  and  whip  energetic, 
Girths  woven  of  rainbows,  and  hard-twisted  flax, 
And  horse-shoes  as  bright  as  the  edge  of  an  axe  ; 
How  blithe  should  she  amble  and  prance  on  the  road, 
With  a  pillion  behind  for . 

By  Helicon's  waters  she  '11  take  her  sweet  course, 
And  indent  the  green  turf  with  the  hoofs  of  her  horse  : 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD.  43 

Up  blooming  Parnassus  bound  higher  and  higher, 
While  the  gate-keeping  Graces  no  toll  shall  require  ; 
And  the  other  eight  Muses  shall  dance  in  cotillion, 
And  sing  round  the  sweep  of  Apollo's  pavillion  — 
While  Phoebus  himself,  standing  godlike  on  dry  land, 
Shall  shine  on  the  belle  of  the  state  of  R I . 


THE   LOST   PLEIAD/ 

TO  MY  FRIEND  G . 


O!  HOW  calm  and  how  beautiful  — look  at  the  night ! 
The  planets  are  wheeling  in  pathways  of  light ; 
And  the  lover,  or  poet,  with  heart,  or  with  eye, 
Sends  his  gaze  with  a  tear,  or  his  soul  with  a  sigh. 

But  from  Fesole's  summit  the  Tuscan  looked  forth, 
To  eastward  and  westward,  to  south  and  to  north  ; 
Neither  planet  nor  star  could  his  vision  delight, 
'Till  his  own  bright  Pleiades  should  rise  to  his  sight. 

They  rose,  and  he  numbered  their  glittering  train  — 
They  shone  bright  as  he  counted  them  over  again  ; 


*  It  is  said  by  the  ancient  poets,  that  there  used  to  be  one 
more  star  in  the  constellation  of  the  Pleiades. 


44  THE  ALLIGATOR. 

But  the  star  of  his  love,  the  bright  gem  of  the  cluster, 
Arose  not  to  lend  the  Pleiades  its  lustre. 

And  thus,  when  the  splendor  of  beauty  has  blazed, 
On  light  and  on  loveliness,  how  have  we  gazed ! 
And  how  sad  have  we  turned  from  the  sight,  when  we 

found 
That  the  fairest  and  sweetest  was  "not  on  the  ground" 


THE   ALLIGATOR/ 


THAT  steed  has  lost  his  rider!     I  have  seen 
His  snuffing  nostril,  and  his  pawing  hoof; 
His  eyeball  lighting  to  the  cannon's  blaze, 
His  sharp  ear  pointed,  and  each  ready  nerve, 
Obedient  to  a  whisper ;  —  his  white  mane 
Curling  with  eagerness,  as  if  it  bore, 
To  squadroned  foes,  the  sign  of  victory, 
Where'er  his  bounding  speed  could  carry  it. 
But  now,  with  languid  step,  he  creeps  along, 
Falters,  and  groans,  and  dies. 


*  The  United  States  schooner  Alligator  was  wrecked  on 
her  return  from  the  West  India  station,  after  the  murder,  by 
the  pirates,  of  her  commander,  Captain  ALLYN. 


THE   SEA  GULL.  45 

And  I  have  seen 

Yon  foundering  vessel,  when  with  crowding  sail, 
With  smoking  bulwarks,  and  with  blazing  sides. 
Sporting  away  the  foam  before  her  prow, 
And  heaving  down  her  side  to  the  brave  chase, 
She  seemed  to  share  the  glories  of  the  bold  ! 

ut  now,  with  flagging  canvass,  lazily 
She  moves;  and  stumbling  on  the  rock,  she  sinks, 
As  broken  hearted  as  that  faithful  steed, 
That  lost  his  rider,  and  laid  down,  and  died. 


THE  SEA   GULL.* 

"Ibis  et  redibis  nunquam  peribis  in  bello." —  Oracle. 

I  SEEK  not  the  grove  where  the  wood-robins  whistle, 
Where  the  light  sparrows  sport,  and  the  linnets  pair; 

I  seek  not  the  bower  where  the  ring-doves  nestle, 
For  none  but  the  maid  and  her  lover  are  there. 

On  the  clefts  of  the  wave-washed  rock  I  sit, 
When  the  ocean  is  roaring  and  raving  nigh  ; 

On  the  howling  tempest  I  scream  and  flit, 

With  the  storm  in  my  wing,  and  the  gale  in  my  eye. 

*  Commodore  PORTER'S  vessel. 


46  THE   SEA  GULL. 

And  when  the  bold  sailor  climbs  the  mast, 

And  sets  his  canvass  gallantly, 
Laughing  at  all  his  perils  past, 

And  seeking  more  on  the  mighty  sea  ; 

I  '11  flit  to  his  vessel,  and  perch  on  the  truck, 

Or  sing  in  the  hardy  pilot's  ear ; 
That  her  deck  shall  be  like  my  wave-washed  rock, 

And  her  top  like  my  nest  when  the  storm  is  near. 

Her  cordage,  the  branches  that  I  will  grace  — 
Her  rigging,  the  grove  where  I  will  whistle ; 

Her  wind-swung  hammock,  my  pairing  place, 
Where  I  by  the  seaboy's  side  will  nestle. 

And  when  the  fight,  like  the  storm,  comes  on, 
'Mid  the  warrior's  shout  and  the  battle's  noise, 

I  '11  cheer  him  by  the  deadly  gun, 
'Till  he  loves  the  music  of  its  voice. 

And  if  death's  dark  mist  shall  his  eye  bedim, 

And  they  plunge  him  beneath  the  fathomless  wave, 

A  wild  note  shall  sing  his  requiem, 

And  a  white  wing  flap  o'er  his  early  grave. 


47 


THE   CAPTAIN. 

A   FRAGMENT.* 


SOLEMN  he  paced  upon  that  schooner's  deck, 
And  muttered  of  his  hardships  :  —  "I  have  been 
Where  the  wild  will  of  Mississippi's  tide 
Has  dashed  me  on  the  sawyer ;  —  I  have  sailed 
In  the  thick  night,  along  the  wave- washed  edge 
Of  ice,  in  acres,  by  the  pitiless  coast 
Of  Labrador  ;  and  I  have  scraped  my  keel 
O'er  coral  rocks  in  Madagascar  seas  — 
And  often  in  my  cold  and  midnight  watch, 
Have  heard  the  warning  voice  of  the  lee-shore 
Speaking  in  breakers  !     Ay,  and  I  have  seen 
The  whale  and  sword-fish  fight  beneath  my  bows  ; 
And,  when  they  made  the  deep  boil  like  a  pot, 
Have  swung  into  its  vortex  ;  and  I  know 


*  A  Bridgeport  paper  of  March,  1823,  said  :  "  Arrived, 
schooner  Fame,  from  Charleston,  via  New-London.  While 
at  anchor  in  that  harbour,  during  the  rain  storm  on  Thursday 
evening  last,  the  Fame  was  run  foul  of  by  the  wreck  of  the 
Methodist  Meeting-house  from  Norwich,  which  was  carried 
away  in  the  late  freshet.7' 


48  THE  CAPTAIN. 

To  cord  my  vessel  with  a  sailor's  skill, 
And  brave  such  dangers  with  a  sailor's  heart ; 
—  But  never  yet  upon  the  stormy  wave, 
Or  where  the  river  mixes  with  the  main, 
Or  in  the  chafing  anchorage  of  the  bay, 
In  all  my  rough  experience  of  harm, 
Met  I  —  a  Methodist  meeting-house  ! 


Cat-head,  or  beam,  or  davit  has  it  none, 

Starboard  nor  larboard,  gunwale,  stem  nor  stern  ! 

It  comes  in  such  a  "  questionable  shape," 

I  cannot  even  speak  it !     Up  jib,  Josey, 

And  make  for  Bridgeport !     There,  where  Stratford 

Point, 

Long-Beach,  Fairweather  Island,  and  the  buoy, 
Are  safe  from  such  encounters,  we  '11  protest ! 
And  Yankee  legends  long  shall  tell  the  tale, 
That  once  a  Charleston  schooner  was  beset, 
Riding  at  anchor,  by  a  Meeting-house. 


LEATHER  STOCKING. 


The  following  lines  refer  to  the  good  wishes  which  Eliza 
beth,  in  MR.  COOPER'S  novel  of  "  The  Pioneers/'  seems 
to  have  manifested,  in  the  last  chapter,  for  the  welfare  of 
"  Leather  Stocking,"  when  he  signified,  at  the  grave  of  the 
Indian,  his  determination  to  quit  the  settlements  of  men  for 
the  unexplored  forests  of  the  west ;  and  when,  whistling  to 
his  dogs,  with  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  pack  on  his 
back,  he  left  the  village  of  Templeton, 


FAR  away  from  the  hill  side,  the  lake,  and  the  hamlet, 
The  rock,  and  the  brook,  and  yon  meadow  so  gay ; 
From  the  footpath  that  winds  by  the  side  of  the  stream 
let; 

From  his  hut,  and  the  grave  of  his  friend,  far  away  — 
He  is  gone  where  the  footsteps  of  men  never  ventured, 
Where  the  glooms  of  the  wild-tangled  forest  are  cen 
tered, 

Where  no  beam  of  the  sun  or  the  sweet  moon  has  en 
tered, 
No  bloodhound  has  roused  up  the  deer  with  his  bay. 

He  has  left  the  green  ally  for  paths,  where  the  bison 
Roams  through  the  praries,  or  leaps  o'er  the  flood  ; 


50  LEATHER   STOCKING. 

Where  the  snake  in  the  swamp  sucks  its  deadliest 

poison, 
And  the  cat  of  the  mountains  keeps  watch  for  its 

food  ; 

But  the  leaf  shall  be  greener,  the  sky  shall  be  purer, 
The  eye  shall  be  clearer,  the  rifle  be  surer, 
And  stronger  the  arm  of  the  fearless  endurer, 

That  trusts  nought  but  Heaven  in  his  way  through 
the  wood. 

Light  be  the  heart  of  the  poor  lonely  wanderer ; 

Firm  be  his  step  through  each  wearisome  mile  — 
Far  from  the  cruel  man,  far  from  the  plunderer  ; 

Far  from  the  track  of  the  mean  and  the  vile. 
And  when  death,  with  the  last  of  its  terrors,  assails  him, 
And  all  but  the  last  throb  of  memory  fails  him, 
He  '11  think  of  the  friend,  far  away,  that  bewails  him, 

And  light  up  the  cold  touch  of  death  with  a  smile. 

And  there  shall  the  dew  shed  its  sweetness  and  lustre; 

There  for  his  pall  shall  the  oak  leaves  be  spread  — 
The  sweet  brier  shall  bloom,  and  the  wild  grape  shall 
cluster ; 

And  o'er  him  the  leaves  of  the  ivy  be  shed. 
There  shall  they  mix  with  the  fern  and  the  heather ; 
There  shall  the  young  eagle  shed  its  first  feather ; 
The  wolves,  with  his  wild  dogs,  shall  lie  there  together, 

And  moan  o'er  the  spot  where  the  hunter  is  laid. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  VERSES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE 
NEW-YEAR,  1823. 


WHEN  streams  of  light,  in  golden  showers, 
First  fell  on  long  lost  Eden's  bowers, 
And  music,  from  the  shouting  skies, 
Wandered  to  Eve's  own  Paradise, 
She  tuned  her  eloquent  thoughts  to  song, 
And  hymned  her  gratitude  among 
The  waving  groves,  by  goodness  planted, 
The  holy  walks  by  blessings  haunted  : 
And  when  of  bower  and  grove  bereaved, 
Since  joy  was  gone,  in  song  she  grieved, 
And  taught  her  scattering  sons  the  art, 
In  mirth  or  woe,  to  touch  the  heart. 
Bear  witness,  Jubal's  ringing  wire, 
And  untaught  David's  holier  lyre  ; 
Let  Judah's  timbrel  o'er  the  waters, 
Sound  to  the  song  of  Israel's  daughters  — 
Let  Prophecy  the  strain  prolong, 
Prompting  the  watching  shepherd's  song. 
And  pressing  to  her  eager  lips, 
The  trump  of  the  Apocalypse. 
Bear  witness  pagan  Homer's  strain, 
That  to  each  valley,  hill,  and  plain 


VERSES   WRITTEN   FOR  THE   NEW-YEAR. 

Of  classic  Greece  —to  all  the  isles 
That  dimple  in  her  climate's  smiles  — 
To  all  the  streams  that  rush  or  flow 
To  the  rough  Archipelago  — 
To  wood  and  rock,  to  brook  and  river, 
Gave  names  will  live  in  song  for  ever. 

The  notes  were  rude  that  Druids  sung 
Their  venerable  woods  among  ; 
But  later  bards,  enwrapt,  could  pore 
At  noon  upon  their  pastoral  lore, 
And  love  the  oak-crowned  shade,  that  yielded 
A  blessing  on  the  spot  it  shielded. 
It  shed  a  solemn  calm  around 
Their  steps,  who  trod  the  Muse's  ground ; 
And  waved  o'er  Shakspeare's  summer  dreams, 
By  Avon's  fancy-haunted  streams. 

Then  Genius  stamped  her  footprints  free, 

Along  the  walks  of  Poetry  ; 

And  cast  a  spell  upon  the  spot, 

To  save  it  from  the  common  lot. 

'T  was  like  the  oily  gloss  that 's  seen 

Upon  the  shining  evergreen, 

When  desolate  in  wintry  air, 

The  trees  and  shrubs  around  are  bare. 

And  when  a  New-Year's  sun  at  last 
Lights  back  our  thoughts  upon  the  past ; 


VERSES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  NEW- YEAR.  53 

When  recollection  brings  each  loss 
Our  sad'ning  memories  across  ; 
When  Piety  and  Science  mourn 
PARSONS  and  FISHER  *  from  them  torn  — 
Just  as  yon  yellow  plague  has  fled  — 
While  mindful  mourners  wail  the  dead, 
The  great,  the  good,  the  fair,  the  brave, 
Seized  in  the  cold  grasp  of  the  grave  ; 
When  Murder's  hand  has  died  the  flood 
With  a  young  gallant  hero's  blood ; 
When  cheeks  are  pale,  and  hearts  distressed, 
Is  this  a  time  for  idle  jest? 

The  waves  shall  moan,  the  winds  shall  wail 
Around  thy  rugged  coast,  Kinsale, 
For  one  who  could  mete  out  the  seas, 
And  turn  to  music  every  breeze  — 
Track  the  directing  star  of  night, 
And  point  the  varying  needle  right. 

Fair  Palestine  !  is  there  no  sound 
That  murmurs  holy  peace  around 
His  distant  grave,  whose  ardent  soul 
Fainted  not  till  it  reached  thy  goal, 


*  See  note  to  "  Lines  on  the  Death  of  Rev.  Levi  Parsons," 
and  "  On  a  late  Loss." 


54  VERSES   WRITTEN   FOR  THE  NEW-YEAR. 

And  blessed  the  rugged  path,  that  led 
His  steps  where  his  Redeemer  bled  ?  — 
We  may  not  breathe  what  angels  sing  — 
We  may  not  wake  a  seraph's  string  ; 
Nor  brush,  with  mortal  steps,  the  dew 
That  heavenly  eyes  have  shed  on  you. 

And  who  shall  tell  to  listening  Glory, 
Bending  in  grief  her  plumed  head, 
While  war-drops  from  her  brow  are  shed, 
And  her  beating  heart,  and  pulses  numb, 
Throb  like  the  tuck  of  a  muffled  drum, 

Her  favorite  ALLYN'S  *  story  ? 
O  !  other  harps  shall  sing  of  him, 
And  other  eyes  with  tears  be  dim  ; 
And  gallant  hopes  that  banish  fears, 
And  hands  and  hearts,  as  well  as  tears, 
Shall  yet,  before  all  eyes  are  dry, 
Do  justice  to  his  memory  ; 
And  hew  or  light,  with  sword  or  flame, 
A  pile  of  vengeance  to  his  name. 

O  !  for  those  circumscribing  seas, 
That  hemmed  thy  foes,  Themistocles  ! 
When  Xerxes  saw  his  vanquished  fleet, 
And  routed  army,  at  his  feet  — 

*  See  note  to  "The  Alligator." 


THE  NEWPORT  TOWER.  55 

And  scowled  o'er  Salamis,  to  see 

His  foes'  triumphant  victory ! 

O  !  for  that  more  than  mortal  stand, 

Where,  marshalling  his  gallant  band, 

Leonidas,  at  freedom's  post, 

Gave  battle  to  a  tyrant's  host: 

Then  Greece  might  struggle,  not  in  vain, 

And  breathe  in  liberty  again. 


THE   NEWPORT   TOWER. 


When  and  for  what  purpose  this  was  built,  seems  to  be 
matter  of  dispute.  The  New-  York  Statesman  associates  it 
with  great  antiquity  —  the  Commercial  Advertiser  gives  it  a 
military  character  ;  and  the  Rhode-Island  American,  with  a 
view,  perhaps,  to  save  it  from  doggerel  rhymes  and  sickish 
paragraphs,  says  it  is  nothing  but  an  old  windmill  —  if  such 
was  the  plan,  however,  it  has  not  succeeded. 


THERE  is  a  rude  old  monument, 
Half  masonry,  half  ruin,  bent 
With  sagging  weight,  as  if  it  meant 

To  warn  one  of  mischance  ; 
And  an  old  Indian  may  be  seen, 
Musing  in  sadness  on  the  scene, 
And  casting  on  it  many  a  keen, 

And  many  a  thoughtful  glance. 


56  THE   NEWPORT   TOWER. 

When  lightly  sweeps  the  evening  tide 
Old  Narraganset's  shore  beside, 
And  the  canoes  in  safety  ride 

Upon  the  lovely  bay  — 
I  've  seen  him  gaze  on  that  old  tower, 
At  evening's  calm  and  pensive  hour, 
And  when  the  night  began  to  lour, 

Scarce  tear  himself  away. 

Oft  at  its  foot  I  Ve  seen  him  sit, 
His  willows  trim,  his  walnut  split, 
And  there  his  seine  he  loved  to  knit, 

And  there  its  rope  to  haul  ; 
'T  is  there  he  loves  to  be  alone, 
Gazing  at  every  crumbling  stone, 
And  making  many  an  anxious  moan, 

When  one  is  like  to  fall. 

But  once  he  turned  with  furious  look, 
While  high  his  clenched  hand  he  shook, 
And  from  his  brow  his  dark  eye  took 

A  red'ning  glow  of  madness  ; 
Yet  when  I  told  him  why  I  came, 
His  wild  and  bloodshot  eye  grew  tame, 
And  bitter  thoughts  passed  o'er  its  flame, 

That  changed  its  rage  to  sadness. 

"You  watch  my  step,  and  ask  me  why 
This  ruin  fills  my  straining  eye  ? 


THE   NEWPORT   TOWER.  57 

Stranger,  there  is  a  prophecy 

Which  you  may  lightly  heed : 
Stay  its  fulfilment,  if  you  can  ; 
I  heard  it  of  a  gray-haired  man, 
And  thus  the  threatening  story  ran,  — 

A  boding  tale  indeed. 

"  He  said,  that  when  this  massy  wall 
Down  to  its  very  base  should  fall, 
And  not  one  stone  among  it  all 

Might  rest  upon  another, 
Then  should  the  Indian  race  and  kind 
Disperse  like  the  returnless  wind, 
And  no  red  man  be  left  to  find 

One  he  could  call  a  brother. 

"  Now  yon  old  tower  is  falling  fast,  — 
Kindred  and  friends  away  are  passed ; 
O !  that  my  father's  soul  may  cast 

Upon  my  grave  its  shade, 
When  some  good  Christian  man  shall  place 
O'er  me,  the  last  of  all  my  race, 
The  last  old  stone  that  falls,  to  grace 

The  spot  where  I  am  laid." 


THE  THUNDER  STORM.* 


THE  Sabbath  morn  came  sweetly  on, 
The  sunbeams  mildly  shone  upon 

Each  rock,  and  tree,  and  flower  ; 
And  floating  on  the  southern  gale, 
The  clouds  seemed  gloriously  to  sail 
Along  the  Heavens,  as  if  to  hail 

That  calm  and  holy  hour. 

By  winding  path  and  alley  green, 

The  lightsome  and  the  young  were  seen 

To  join  the  gathering  throng ; 
While  with  slow  step  and  solemn  look, 
The  elders  of  the  village  took 
Their  way,  and  as  with  age  they  shook, 

Went  reverently  along. 


*  Two  persons,  an  old  lady  and  a  girl,  were  killed  by  light 
ning,  in  the  Presbyterian  Meeting-house  in  Montville,  on 
Sunday  the  1st  of  June,  1823,  while  the  congregation  were 
singing.  The  following  is  not  an  exaggerated  account  of  the 
particulars. 


THE  THUNDER  STORM.  59 

They  meet  —  the  "  sweet  psalm-tune  "  they  raise  ; 
They  join  their  grateful  hearts,  and  praise 

The  Maker  they  adore. 
They  met  in  holy  joy  ;  but  they 
Grieve  now,  who  saw  His  wrath  that  day, 
And  sadly  went  they  all  away, 

And  better  than  before. 

There  was  one  cloud,  that  overcast 
The  valley  and  the  hill,  nor  past 

Like  other  mists  away  : 
It  moved  not  round  the  circling  sweep 
Of  the  clear  sky,  but  dark  and  deep. 
Came  down  upon  them  sheer  and  steep, 

Where  they  had  met  to  pray. 

One  single  flash  !  it  rent  the  spire, 
And  pointed  downward  all  its  fire  — 

What  could  its  power  withstay  ? 
There  was  an  aged  head;  and  there 
Was  beauty  in  its  youth,  and  fair 
Floated  the  young  locks  of  her  hair  — 

It  called  them  both  away  ! 

The  Sabbath  eve  went  sweetly  down  ; 
Its  parting  sunbeams  mildly  shone 
Upon  each  rock  and  flower  ; 
And  gently  blew  the  southern  gale, 


60  TO   A    MISSIONARY. 


—  But  on  it  was  a  voice  of  wail, 
And  eyes  were  wet,  and  cheeks  were  pale, 
In  that  sad  evening  hour. 


TO    A    MISSIONARY, 

WHO    ATTENDED    THE    LATE    MEETING  OF  THE    BIBLE 
SOCIETY   AT    NEW    YORK. 


WHY  should  thy  heart  grow  faint,  they  cheek  be  pale  ? 

Why  in  thine  eye  should  hang  the  frequent  tear, 
As  if  the  promise  of  thy  God  would  fail, 

And  thou  and  all  be  left  to  doubt  and  fear  ? 

Doubt  not,  for  holy  men  are  gathered  here  ; 
Fear  not,  for  holy  thoughts  surround  the  place, 

And  angel  pinions  hover  round,  to  bear 
To  their  bright  homes  the  triumphs  of  His  grace, 
Whose  word  all  sin  and  shame,  all  sorrow  shall  efface. 

Pure  as  a  cherub's  wishes  be  thy  thought, 

For  in  thine  ear  are  heavenly  whisperings  ; 
And  strong  thy  purposes,  as  though  they  sought 

To  do  the  errand  of  the  King  of  Kings. 

And  if  thy  heart  be  right,  his  mantle  flings 
Its  glorious  folds  of  charity  around 

Thine  earthly  feelings ;  and  the  tuneful  strings 


THE   ROBBER.  61 

Of  harps  in  heaven  shall  vibrate  to  the  sound 
Of  thy  soul's  prayer  from  earth,  if  thou  art  contrite 
found. 

Go  then,  and  prosper.     He  has  promised  all  — 

All  that  instructed  zeal  can  need  or  ask ; 
And  thou  art  summoned  with  too  loud  a  call, 

To  hesitate  and  tremble  at  thy  task. 

Let  scoffers  in  their  glimpse  of  sunshine  bask, 
And  note  thy  pilgrimage  in  other  light : 

Theirs  is  a  look  that  peeps  but  through  a  mask  ; 
Thine  is  an  open  path,  too  plain,  too  bright 
For  those  who  doze  by  day,  and  see  but  in  the  night. 


THE   ROBBER/ 


THE  moon  hangs  lightly  on  yon  western  hill ; 
And  now  it  gives  a  parting  look,  like  one 


*  Two  large  bags  containing  newspapers,  were  stolen  from 
the  boot  behind  a  Mail  Coach  between  New  Brunswick  and 
Bridgetown.  The  straps  securing  the  bags  in  the  boot  were 
cut,  and  nothing  else  injured  or  removed  therefrom.  The 
letter  mails  are  always  carried  in  the  front  boot  of  the  coach, 
under  the  driver's  feet,  and  therefore  cannot  be  so  easily  ap 
proached. 


62  THE  ROBBER. 

Who  sadly  leaves  the  guilty.     You  and  I 

Must  watch,  when  all  is  dark,  and  steal  along 

By  these  lone  trees,  and  wait  for  plunder.  — Hush  ! 

I  hear  the  coming  of  some  luckless  wheel, 

Bearing  we  know  not  what  —  perhaps  the  wealth 

Torn  from  the  needy,  to  be  hoarded  up 

By  those  who  only  count  it ;  and  perhaps 

The  spendthrift's  losses,  or  the  gambler's  gains, 

The  thriving  merchant's  rich  remittances, 

Or  the  small  trifle  some  poor  serving  girl 

Sends  to  her  poorer  parents.     But  come  on  — 

Be  cautious.  —  There—  'tis  done  ;  and  now  away, 

With  breath  drawn  in,  and  noiseless  step,  to  seek 

The  darkness  that  befits  so  dark  a  deed. 

Now  strike  your  light.  —  Ye  powers  that  look  upon  us! 

What  have  we  here  ?     Whigs,  Sentinels,  Gazettes, 

Heralds,  and  Posts,  and  Couriers  —  Mercuries, 

Recorders,  Advertisers,  and  Intelligencers  — 

Advocates  and  Auroras.  —  There,  what 's  that  ! 

That 's  —  a  Price  Current. 

I  do  venerate 

The  man,  who  rolls  the  smooth  and  silky  sheet 
Upon  the  well  cut  copper.     I  respect 
The  worthier  names  of  those  who  sign  bank  bills ; 
And,  though  no  literary  man,  I  love 
To  read  their  short  and  pithy  sentences. 
But  I  hate  types,  and  printers  —  and  the  gang 


SONNET   TO   THE   SEA-SERPENT. 

Of  editors  and  scribblers.    Their  remarks, 
Essays,  songs,  paragraphs,  and  prophecies, 
I  utterly  detest.  —  And  these,  particularly, 
Are  just  the  meanest  and  most  rascally, 
"  Stale  and  unprofitable  "  publications, 
I  ever  read  in  my  life. 


SONNET    TO    THE   SEA-SERPENT. 


"  Hugest  that  swims  the  ocean  stream." 

WELTER  upon  the  waters,  mighty  one  — 
And  stretch  thee  in  the  ocean's  trough  of  brine  ; 

Turn  thy  wet  scales  up  to  the  \vind  and  sun, 
And  toss  the  billow  from  thy  flashing  fin  ; 
Heave  thy  deep  breathings  to  the  ocean's  din, 

And  bound  upon  its  ridges  in  thy  pride  : 

Or  dive  down  to  its  lowest  depths,  and  in 
The  caverns  where  its  unknown  monsters  hide, 
Measure  thy  length  beneath  the  gulf-stream's  tide 

Or  rest  thee  on  that  naval  of  the  sea 
Where,  floating  on  the  Maelstrom,  abide 

The  krakens  sheltering  under  Norway's  lee  ; 
But  go  not  to  Nahant,  lest  men  should  swear, 
You  are  a  great  deal  bigger  than  you  are. 


AES  ALIENUM." 


HISPANIA  !  O,  Hispania  !  once  my  home  — 
How  hath  thy  fall  degraded  every  son 
Who  owns  thee  for  a  birth-place.     They  who  walk 
Thy  marbled  courts  and  holy  sanctuaries, 
Or  tread  thy  olive  groves,  and  pluck  the  grapes 
That  cluster  there  —  or  dance  the  saraband 
By  moonlight,  to  some  Moorish  melody  — 
Or  whistle  with  the  Muleteer,  along 
Thy  goat-climbed  rocks  and  awful  precipices  ; 
How  do  the  nations  scorn  them  and  deride  ! 
And  they  who  wander  where  a  Spanish  tongue 
Was  never  heard,  and  where  a  Spanish  heart 
Had  never  beat  before,  how  poor,  how  shunned, 
Avoided,  undervalued,  and  debased, 
Move  they  among  the  foreign  multitudes  ! 
Once  I  was  bright  to  the  world's  eye,  and  passed 
Among  the  nobles  of  my  native  land 
In  Spain's  armorial  bearings,  decked  and  stampt 
With  Royalty's  insignia,  and  I  claimed 
And  took  the  station  of  my  high  descent ; 
But  the  cold  world  has  cut  a  cantle  out 


THE  GUERRILLA.  65 

From  my  escutcheon  —  and  now  here  I  am, 
A  poor,  depreciated  pistareen.* 


THE  GUERRILLA. 


THOUGH  friends  are  false,  and  leaders  fail, 

And  rulers  quake  with  fear ; 
Though  tamed  the  shepherd  in  the  vale, 

Though  slain  the  mountaineer; 
Though  Spanish  beauty  fill  their  arms, 

And  Spanish  gold  their  purse  — 
Sterner  than  wealth's  or  war's  alarms, 

Is  the  wild  Guerrilla's  curse. 

No  trumpets  range  us  to  the  fight ; 

No  signal  sound  of  drum 
Tells  to  the  foe,  that  in  their  might 

The  hostile  squadrons  come. 
No  sunbeam  glitters  on  our  spears, 

No  warlike  tramp  of  steeds 
Gives  warning  —  for  the  first  that  hears 

Shall  be  the  first  that  bleeds. 


*  This  coin,  now  seldom  seen,  was  formerly  valued  at 
twenty  cents  3  but  when  the  above  was  written  passed  for  but 
eighteen. 


THE  GUERRILLA. 

The  night  breeze  calls  us  from  our  bed, 

At  dewfall  forms  the  line, 
And  darkness  gives  the  signal  dread 

That  makes  our  ranks  combine  : 
Or  should  some  straggling  moonbeam  lie 

On  copse  or  lurking  hedge, 
'T  would  flash  but  from  a  Spaniard's  eye, 

Or  from  a  dagger's  edge. 

'T  is  clear  in  the  sweet  vale  below, 

And  misty  on  the  hill ; 
The  skies  shine  mildly  on  the  foe, 

But  lour  upon  us  still. 
This  gathering  storm  shall  quickly  burst, 

And  spread  its  terrors  far, 
And  at  its  front  we  '11  be  the  first, 

And  with  it  go  to  war. 

O  !  the  mountain  peak  shall  safe  remain  — 

'T  is  the  vale  shall  be  despoiled, 
And  the  tame  hamlets  of  the  plain 

With  ruin  shall  run  wild ; 
But  Liberty  shall  breathe  our  air 

Upon  the  mountain  head, 
And  Freedom's  breezes  wander  here, 

Here  all  their  fragrance  shed. 


JACK  FROST  AND  THE  CATY-DID. 


JACK   FROST. 

I  HEARD  —  't  was  on  an  Autumn  night  — 

A  little  song  from  yonder  tree  ; 
'T  was  a  Caty-did,  in  the  branches  hid. 

And  thus  sung  he  : 

"  Fair  Caty  sat  beside  yon  stream, 

Beneath  the  chestnut  tree  ; 
Each  star  sent  forth  its  brightest  gleam, 
And  the  moon  let  fall  her  softest  beam 

On  Caty  and  on  me. 

"  And  thus  she  wished  — '  O,  could  I  sing 

Like  the  little  birds  in  May, 
With  a  satin  breast  and  a  silken  wing, 
And  a  leafy  home  by  this  gentle  spring, 

1  'd  chirp  as  blithe  as  they. 

"  '  The  Frog  in  the  water,  the  Cricket  on  land, 

The  Night-hawk  in  the  sky, 
With  the  Whip-poor-will  should  be  my  band, 
While  gayly  by  the  streamlet's  sand, 

The  Lightning-bug  should  fly.' 


JACK  FROST  AND  THE    CATY-DID. 

"  Her  wish  is  granted  —  Off  she  flings 

The  robes  that  her  beauty  hid  ; 
She  wraps  herself  in  her  silken  wings, 
And  near  me  now  she  sits  and  sings. 
And  tells  what  Caty  did." 


A  beam  from  the  waning  moon  was  shot, 

Where  the  little  minstrel  hid, 
A  cobweb  from  the  cloud  was  let, 

And  down  I  boldly  slid. 

A  hollow  hailstone  on  my  head, 
For  a  glittering  helm  was  clasped, 

And  a  sharpened  spear,  like  an  icicle  clear, 
In  my  cold  little  fingers  was  grasped. 

Silent,  and  resting  on  their  arms, 

I  viewed  my  forces  nigh, 
Waiting  the  sign  on  earth  to  land, 

Or  bivouac  in  the  sky. 

From  a  birchen  bough,  which  yellow  turned 

Beneath  my  withering  lance  ; 
I  pointed  them  to  that  glassy  pool, 

And  silently  they  advanced. 

The  water  crisped  beneath  their  feet 
It  never  felt  their  weights  ; 


MR.  MERRY'S  LAMENT  FOR  "LONG  TOM."    69 

And  nothing-  but  the  rising  sun, 
Showed  traces  of  their  skates. 

No  horn  I  sounded,  no  shout  I  made, 

But  I  lifted  my  vizor  lid, 
My  felt-shod  foot  on  the  leaf  I  put. 

And  killed  the  Caty-did. 

Her  song  went  down  the  southern  wind, 

Her  last  breath  up  the  stream  ; 
But  a  rustling  branch  is  left  behind, 

To  fan  her  wakeless  dream. 


MR.  MERRY'S  LAMENT  FOR  "LONG  TOM."* 


"  Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore." 


THY  cruise  is  over  now, 

Thou  art  anchored  by  the  shore, 
And  never  more  shalt  thou 

Hear  the  storm  around  thee  roar ; 


*  See  the  sixth  chapter  of  the  second  volume  of  "  The 
Pilot/7  by  the  author  of  "  The  Pioneers." 


70          MR.  MERRY'S    LAMENT   FOR  "LONG  TOM." 

Death  has  shaken  out  the  sands  of  thy  glass. 
Now  around  thee  sports  the  whale, 
And  the  porpoise  snuffs  the  gale, 
And  the  night-winds  wake  their  wail, 
As  they  pass. 

The  sea-grass  round  thy  bier 

Shall  bend  beneath  the  tide, 
Nor  tell  the  breakers  near 

Where  thy  manly  limbs  abide  ; 
But  the  granite  rock  thy  tombstone  shall  be. 
Though  the  edges  of  thy  grave 
Are  the  combings  of  the  wave  — 
Yet  unheeded  they  shall  rave 
Over  thee. 

At  the  piping  of  all  hands, 

When  the  judgment  signal's  spread  — 
When  the  islands,  and  the  lands, 

And  the  seas  give  up  their  dead, 
And  the  south  and  the  north  shall  come  ; 
When  the  sinner  is  dismayed, 
And  the  just  man  is  afraid, 
Then  Heaven  be  thy  aid, 
Poor  Tom. 


71 


ON   THE  DEATH  OF  MR.   WOODWARD,   AT 
EDINBURGH. 

"  The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread, 
Is  cord —  is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 
On  earthly  bliss  ;  it  breaks  at  every  breeze." 

ANOTHER  !  't  is  a  sad  word  to  the  heart, 
That  one  by  one  has  lost  its  hold  on  life, 

From  all  it  loved  or  valued,  forced  to  part 
In  detail.    Feeling  dies  not  by  the  knife 
That  cuts  at  once  and  kills  —  its  tortured  strife 

Is  with  distilled  affliction,  drop  by  drop 
Oozing  its  bitterness.     Our  world  is  rife 

With  grief  and  sorrow  !  all  that  we  would  prop, 

Or  would  be  propped  with,  falls  —  when  shall  the  ruin 
stop! 

The  sea  has  one,  and  Palestine  has  one, 

And  Scotland  has  the  last.    The  snooded  maid 

Shall  gaze  in  wonder  on  the  stranger's  stone, 
And  wipe  the  dust  off  with  her  tartan  plaid  — 
And  from  the  lonely  tomb  where  thou  art  laid, 


72  TO    THE    DEAD. 

Turn  to  some  other  monument  —  nor  know 

Whose  grave  she  passes,  or  whose  name  she  read — 
Whose  loved  and  honored  relics  lie  below ; 
Whose  is  immortal  joy,  and  whose  is  mortal  woe. 

There  is  a  world  of  bliss  hereafter  —  else 
Why  are  the  bad  above,  the  good  beneath 

The  green  grass  of  the  grave  ?     The  Mower  fells 
Flowers  and  briers  alike.    But  man  shall  breathe 
(When  he  his  desolating  blade  shall  sheathe 

And  rest  him  from  his  work)  in  a  pure  sky, 

Above  the  smoke  of  burning  worlds ;  —  and  Death 

On  scorched  pinions  with  the  dead  shall  lie, 

When  time,  with  all  his  years  and  centuries  has 
passed  by. 


TO   THE  DEAD. 


How  many  now  are  dead  to  me 

That  live  to  others  yet ! 
How  many  are  alive  to  me 
Who  crumble  in  their  graves,  nor  see 
That  sick'ning,  sinking  look  which  we 

Till  dead  can  ne'er  forget. 


TO  THE  DEAD.  73 

Beyond  the  blue  seas,  far  away, 

Most  wretchedly  alone, 
One  died  in  prison  —  far  away, 
Where  stone  on  stone  shut  out  the  day, 
And  never  hope,  or  comfort's  ray 

In  his  tone  dungeon  shone. 

Dead  to  the  world,  alive  to  me  ; 

Though  months  and  years  have  passed, 
In  a  lone  hour,  his  sigh  to  me 
Comes  like  the  hum  of  some  wild  bee, 
And  then  his  form  and  face  I  see 

As  when  I  saw  him  last. 

And  one  with  a  bright  lip,  and  cheek, 

And  eye,  is  dead  to  me. 
How  pale  the  bloom  of  his  smooth  cheek ! 
His  lip  was  cold  —  it  would  not  speak  ; 
His  heart  was  dead,  for  it  did  not  break ; 

And  his  eye,  for  it  did  not  see. 

Then  for  the  living  be  the  tomb, 

And  for  the  dead  the  smile  ; 
Engrave  oblivion  on  the  tomb 
Of  pulseless  life  and  deadly  bloom  — 
Dim  is  such  glare  :  but  bright  the  gloom 

Around  the  funeral  pile. 


74 


THE   DEEP. 


THERE  's  beauty  in  the  deep ; 
The  wave  is  bluer  than  the  sky  ; 
And  though  the  lights  shine  bright  on  high, 
More  softly  do  the  sea-gems  glow 
That  sparkle  in  the  depths  below  ; 
The  rainbow's  tints  are  only  made 
When  on  the  waters  they  are  laid, 
And  Sun  and  Moon  most  sweetly  shine 
Upon  the  ocean's  level  brine. 

There  's  beauty  in  the  deep. 

There 's  music  in  the  deep  :  — 
It  is  not  in  the  surfs  rough  roar, 
Nor  in  the  whispering,  shelly  shore  — 
They  are  but  earthly  sounds,  that  tell 
How  little  of  the  sea  nymph's  shell, 
That  sends  its  loud,  clear  note  abroad, 
Or  winds  its  softness  through  the  flood, 
Echoes  through  groves  with  coral  gay, 
And  dies,  on  spongy  banks,  away. 

There  's  music  in  the  deep. 


THE   GOOD    SAMARITAN.  75 

There  's  quiet  in  the  deep  :  — 
Above,  let  tides  and  tempests  rave, 
And  earth-born  whirlwinds  wake  the  wave  ; 
Above,  let  care  and  fear  contend, 
With  sin  and  sorrow  to  the  end  ; 
Here,  far  beneath  the  tainted  foam, 
That  frets  above  our  peaceful  home, 
We  dream  in  joy,  and  wake  in  love, 
Nor  know  the  rage  that  yells  above. 

There  's  quiet  in  the  deep. 


THE    GOOD    SAMARITAN. 


WHO  bleeds  in  the  desert,  faint,  naked,  and  torn, 

Left  lonely  to  wait  for  the  coming  of  morn  ? 

The  last  sigh  from  his  breast,  the  last  drop  from  his 

heart, 

The  last  tear  from  his  eyelid,  seem  ready  to  part. 
He  looks  to  the  east  with  a  death-swimming  eye, 
Once  more  the  blest  beams  of  the  morning  to  spy  ; 
For  penniless,  friendless,  and  houseless  he  's  lying, 
And  he  shudders  to  think,  that  in  darkness  he 's  dying. 
Yon  meteor!  —  't is  ended  as  soon  as  begun  — 
Yon  gleam  of  the  lightning  !  it  is  not  the  sun  ; 
They  brighten  and  pass  —  but  the  glory  of  day 
Is  warm  while  it  shines,  and  does  good  on  its  way. 


76  THE    GOOD   SAMARITAN. 

How  brightly  the  morning  breaks  out  from  the  east ! 

Who  walks  down  the  path  to  get  tithes  for  his  priest  ?  * 

It  is  not  the  Robber  who  plundered  and  fled  ; 

'T  is  a  Levite.     He  turns  from  the  wretched  his  head. 

Who  walks  in  his  robes  from  Jerusalem's  halls  ? 

Who  comes  to  Samaria  from  Ilia's  walls  ? 

There  is  pride  in  his  step  —  there  is  hate  in  his  eye  ; 

There  is  scorn  on  his  lip,  as  he  proudly  walks  by. 

'T  is  thy  Priest,  thy  proud  city,  now  splendid  and 

fair; 
A  few  years   shall  pass  thee,  —  and  who  shall  be 

there  ? 

Mount  Gerizim  looks  on  the  valleys  that  spread 
From  the  foot  of  high  Ebal,  to  Esdrelon's  head  ; 
The  torrent  of  Kison  rolls  black  through  the  plain, 
And  Tabor  sends  out  its  fresh  floods  to  that  main, 
Which,  purpled  with  fishes,  flows  rich  with  the  dies 
That  flash  from  their  fins,  and  shine  out  from  their 

eyes.f 

How  sweet  are  the  streams :  but  how  purer  the  foun 
tain, 
That  gushes  and  wells  from  Samaria's  mountain  ! 


*  Numbers,  xviii. 

t  D'Anville  says  the  fish  from  which  the  famous  purple  die 
was  obtained;  were  shell-fish  ;  but  this  is  doubted. 


THE   NOSEGAY.  77 

From  Galilee's  city  the  Cuthite  comes  out, 

And  by  Jordan-washed  Thirza,  with  purpose  devout, 

To  pay  at  the  altar  of  Gerizim's  shrine, 

And  offer  his  incense  of  oil  and  of  wine. 

He  follows  his  heart,  that  with  eagerness  longs 

For  Samaria's  anthems,  and  Syria's  songs. 

He  sees  the  poor  Hebrew :  he  stops  on  the  way. 
—  By  the  side  of  the  wretched  't  is  better  to  pray, 
Than  to  visit  the  holiest  temple  that  stands 
In  the  thrice  blessed  places  of  Palestine's  lands. 
The  oil  that  was  meant  for  Mount  Gerizim's  ground, 
Would  better  be  poured  on  the  sufferer's  wound  ; 
For  no  incense  more  sweetly,  more  purely  can  rise 
From  the  altars  of  earth  to  the  throne  of  the  skies, 
No  libation  more  rich  can  be  offered  below, 
Than  that  which  is  tendered  to  anguish  and  woe. 


THE  NOSEGAY. 


I  'LL  pull  a  bunch  of  buds  and  flowers, 

And  tie  a  ribbon  round  them, 
If  you  '11  but  think,  in  your  lonely  hours, 

Of  the  sweet  little  girl  that  bound  them. 


73  THE   STRING   AROUND    MY   FINGER. 

I  '11  cull  the  earliest  that  put  forth, 
And  those  that  last  the  longest ; 

And  the  bud,  that  boasts  the  fairest  birth, 
Shall  cling  to  the  stem  that 's  strongest. 

I  Ve  run  about  the  garden  walks, 

And  searched  among  the  dew,  Sir;  — 

These  fragrant  flowers,  these  tender  stalks, 
I  've  plucked  them  all  for  you,  Sir. 

So  here  's  your  bunch  of  buds  and  flowers, 
And  here  's  the  ribbon  round  them  ; 

And  here,  to  cheer  your  saddened  hours, 
Is  the  sweet  little  girl  that  bound  them. 


THE   STRING   AROUND   MY   FINGER. 


"  Et  haec  olim  meminisse  juvabit." 


THE  bell  that  strikes  the  warning  hour, 
Reminds  me  that  I  should  not  linger, 

And  winds  around  my  heart  its  power, 
Tight  as  the  string  around  my  finger. 


THE  STRING  AROUND  MY  FINGER.  79 

A  sweet  good-night  I  give,  and  then 
Far  from  my  thoughts  I  need  must  fling  her, 

Who  blessed  that  lovely  evening,  when 
She  tied  the  string  around  my  finger. 

Lovely  and  virtuous,  kind  and  fair, 

A  sweet-toned  bell,  O  !  who  shall  ring  her ! 

Of  her  let  bell  men  all  beware, 
Who  ties  such  strings  around  their  finger. 

What  shall  I  do  ?—  I  '11  sit  me  down, 
And,  in  my  leisure  hours,  I  '11  sing  her 

Who  gave  me  neither  smile  nor  frown, 
But  tied  a  thread  around  my  finger. 

Now  may  the  quiet  star-lit  hours 

Their  gentlest  dews  and  perfumes  bring  her ; 
And  morning  show  its  sweetest  flowers 

To  her  whose  string  is  round  my  finger. 

And  never  more  may  I  forget 

The  spot  where  I  so  long  did  linger  ;  — 
But  watch  another  chance,  and  get 

Another  string  around  my  finger. 


SALMON   RIVER.* 


Hie  viridis  tenera  praetexit  arundine  ripas 
Mincius.  — VIRGIL. 


'T  is  a  sweet  stream  —  and  so,  't  is  true,  are  all 
That  undisturbed,  save  by  the  harmless  brawl 
Of  mimic  rapid  or  slight  waterfall, 

Pursue  their  way 

By  mossy  bank,  and  darkly  waving  wood, 
By  rock,  that  since  the  deluge  fixed  has  stood, 
Showing  to  sun  and  moon  their  crisping  flood 

By  night  and  day. 

But  yet,  there  's  something  in  its  humble  rank, 
Something  in  its  pure  wave  and  sloping  bank, 
Where  the  deer  sported,  and  the  young  fawn  drank 

With  unscared  look ; 

There  's  much  in  its  wild  history,  that  teems 
With  all  that 's  superstitious  —  and  that  seems 
To  match  our  fancy  and  eke  out  our  dreams, 

In  that  small  brook. 

*  This  river  enters  into  the  Connecticut  at  East  Haddam. 


SALMON  RIVER.  81 

Havoc  has  been  upon  its  peaceful  plain, 

And  blood  has  dropped  there,  like  the  drops  of  rain; 

The  corn  grows  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  slain  — 

And  many  a  quiver, 

Filled  from  the  reeds  that  grew  on  yonder  hill, 
Has  spent  itself  in  carnage.     Now  't  is  still, 
And  whistling  ploughboys  oft  their  runlets  fill 

From  Salmon  River. 

Here,  say  old  men,  the  Indian  Magi  made 
Their  spells  by  moonlight ;  or  beneath  the  shade 
That  shrouds  sequestered  rock,  or  dark'ning  glade, 

Or  tangled  dell. 

Here  Philip  came,  and  Miantonimo, 
And  asked  about  their  fortunes  long  ago, 
As  Saul  to  Endor,  that  her  witch  might  show 

Old  Samuel. 

And  here  the  black  fox  roved,  that  howled  and  shook 
His  thick  tail  to  the  hunters,  by  the  brook 
Where  they  pursued  their  game,  and  him  mistook 

For  earthly  fox  ; 

Thinking  to  shoot  him  like  a  shaggy  bear, 
And  his  soft  peltry,  stripped  and  dressed,  to  wear, 
Or  lay  a  trap,  and  from  his  quiet  lair 

Transfer  him  to  a  box. 


82  THE   BLACK  FOX  OF  SALMON   RIVER. 

Such  are  the  tales  they  tell.   'T  is  hard  to  rhyme 

About  a  little  and  unnoticed  stream, 

That  few  have  heard  of —  but  it  is  a  theme 

I  chance  to  love  ; 

And  one  day  I  may  tune  my  rye-straw  reed, 
And  whistle  to  the  note  of  many  a  deed 
Done  on  this  river  —  Avhich,  if  there  be  need, 

I  '11  try  to  prove. 


THE   BLACK  FOX   OF  SALMON   RIVER. 


The  lines  below  are  founded  on  a  legend,  that  is  as  well 
authenticated  as  any  superstition  of  the  kind  ;  and  as  current 
in  the  place  where  it  originated,  as  could  be  expected  of 
one  that  possesses  so  little  interest. 

"  How  cold,  how  beautiful,  how  bright, 
The  cloudless  heaven  above  us  shines ; 

But 't  is  a  howling  winter's  night  — 
'T  would  freeze  the  very  forest  pines. 

"The  winds  are  up,  while  mortals  sleep  ; 

The  stars  look  forth  when  eyes  are  shut ; 
The  bolted  snow  lies  drifted  deep 

Around  our  poor  and  lonely  hut. 


THE  BLACK  FOX   OF  SALMON  RIVER.  83 

"  With  silent  step  and  listening  ear, 
With  bow  and  arrow,  dog,  and  gun, 

We  '11  mark  his  track,  for  his  prowl  we  hear, 
Now  is  our  time  —  come  on,  come  on." 

O'er  many  a  fence,  through  many  a  wood, 
Following  the  dog's  bewildered  scent, 

In  anxious  haste  and  earnest  mood, 
The  Indian  and  the  white  man  went. 

The  gun  is  cocked,  the  bow  is  bent, 
The  dog  stands  with  uplifted  paw, 

And  ball  and  arrow  swift  are  sent, 
Aimed  at  the  prowler's  very  jaw. 

—  The  ball,  to  kill  that  fox,  is  run 
Not  in  a  mould  by  mortals  made  ! 

The  arrow  which  that  fox  should  shun, 
Was  never  shaped  from  earthly  reed  ! 

The  Indian  Druids  of  the  wood 

Know  where  the  fatal  arrows  grow  — 

They  spring  not  by  the  summer  flood, 

They  pierce  not  through  the  winter  snow ! 

Why  cowers  the  dog,  whose  snuffing  nose 
Was  never  once  deceived  till  now  ? 

And  why,  amid  the  chilling  snows, 
Does  either  hunter  wipe  his  brow  ? 


THE  BLACK  FOX    OF   SALMON   RIVER. 

For  once  they  see  his  fearful  den, 
'T  is  a  dark  cloud  that  slowly  moves 

By  night  around  the  homes  of  men, 
By  day  —  along  the  stream  it  loves. 

Again  the  dog  is  on  his  track, 
The  hunters  chase  o'er  dale  and  hill, 

They  may  not,  though  they  would,  look  back, 
They  must  go  forward  —  forward  still. 

Onward  they  go,  and  never  turn, 
Spending  a  night  that  meets  no  day  ; 

For  them  shall  never  morning  sun, 
Light  them  upon  their  endless  way. 

The  hut  is  desolate,  and  there 
The  famished  dog  alone  returns  ; 

On  the  cold  steps  he  makes  his  lair, 
By  the  shut  door  he  lays  his  bones. 

Now  the  tired  sportsman  leans  his  gun 

Against  the  ruins  of  the  site, 
And  ponders  on  the  hunting  done 

By  the  lost  wanderers  of  the  night. 

And  there  the  little  country  girls 
Will  stop  to  whisper,  and  listen,  and  look, 

And  tell,  while  dressing  their  sunny  curls, 
Of  the  Black  Fox  of  Salmon  Brook. 


ONE   THAT  'S   ON   THE   SEA. 


WITH  gallant  sail  and  streamer  gay, 

Sweeping  along  the  splendid  bay, 

That,  thronged  by  thousands,  seems  to  greet 

The  bearer  of  a  precious  freight, 

The  Cadmus  comes  ;  and  every  wave 

Is  glad  the  welcomed  prow  to  lave. 

What  are  the  ship  and  freight  to  me  — 
I  look  for  one  that 's  on  the  sea. 

"  Welcome  FAYETTE,"  the  million  cries ; 
From  heart  to  heart  the  ardor  flies, 
And  drum,  and  bell,  and  cannon  noise, 
In  concord  with  a  nation's  voice, 
Is  pealing  through  a  grateful  land, 
And  all  go  with  him.  —  Here  I  stand, 
Musing  on  one  that 's  dear  to  me, 
Yet  sailing  on  the  dangerous  sea. 

Be  thy  days  happy  here,  FAYETTE  — 
Long  may  they  be  so  —  long  —  but  yet 
To  me  there  's  one  that,  dearest  still, 
Clings  to  my  heart  and  chains  my  will. 


ONE  THAT'S   ON  THE   SEA. 

His  languid  limbs  and  feverish  head 

Are  laid  upon  a  sea-sick  bed. 

Perhaps  his  thoughts  are  fixed  on  me, 
While  tossed  upon  the  mighty  sea. 

I  am  alone.    Let  thousands  throng 
The  noisy,  crowded  streets  along  : 
Sweet  be  the  beam  of  Beauty's  gaze  — 
Loud  be  the  shout  that  Freemen  raise  — 
Let  Patriots  grasp  thy  noble  hand, 
And  welcome  thee  to  Freedom's  land  ;  — 
Alas  !  I  think  of  none  but  he 
Who  sails  across  the  foaming  sea. 

So,  when  the  moon  is  shedding  light 
Upon  the  stars,  and  all  is  bright 
And  beautiful ;  when  every  eye 
Looks  upwards  to  the  glorious  sky  ; 
How  have  I  turned  my  silent  gaze 
To  catch  one  little  taper's  blaze  :  — 
'T  was  from  a  spot  too  dear  to  me, 
The  home  of  him  that 's  on  the  sea. 


PRESIDENTIAL   COTILLION. 


Carmina  turn  melius,  cum  venerit  IPSE  canemus. 

VIRG.  Bucolica,  Eel.  ix. 


CASTLE  GARDEN  was  splendid  one  night — though  the 

wet 

Put  off  for  some  evenings  the  ball  for  FAYETTE. 
The  arrangements  were  rich,  the  occasion  was  pat, 
And  the  whole  was  in  style  ;  —  but  I  sing  not  of  that. 

Ye  Graces,  attend  to  a  poet's  condition, 

And  bring  your  right  heels  to  the  second  position  ; 

I  sing  of  a  dance,  such  as  never  was  seen 

On  fairy-tripped  meadow,  or  muse-haunted  green. 

The  length  of  the  room,  and  the  height  of  the  hall, 
The  price  of  the  tickets,  the  cost  of  the  ball, 
And  the  sums  due  for  dresses,  I  'm  glad  to  forget  — 
I  'd  rather  pay  oif  the  whole  national  debt. 

The  fiddlers  were  Editors,  ranged  on  the  spot, 
There  were  strings  that  were  rosined,  and  strings  that 
were  not ; 


38  PRESIDENTIAL   COTILLION. 

Who  furnished  the  instruments  I  do  not  know, 
But  each  of  the  band  drew  a  very  long  boiv. 

They  screwed  up  their  pegs,  and  they  shouldered  their 

fiddles  ; 

They  fingered  the  notes  of  their  hey-diddle-diddles  ; 
Spectators  looked  on  —  they  were  many  a  million, 
To  see  the  performers  in  this  great  cotillion. 

One  Adams  first  led  Miss  Diplomacy  out, 
And  Crawford  Miss  Money  —  an  heiress  no  doubt ; 
And  Jackson  Miss  Dangerous,  a  tragical  actor, 
And  Clay,  Madam  Tariff,  of  home  manufacture. 

There  was  room  for  a  set  just  below,  and  each  buck 
Had  a  belle  by  his  side,  like  a  drake  with  his  duck; 
But  the  first  set  attracted  the  whole  room's  attention, 
For  they  cut  the  capers  most  worthy  of  mention. 

They  bowed  and  they  courtesied,  round  went  all  eight, 
Right  foot  was  the  word,  and  chassi  was  the  gait ; 
Then  they  balanced  to  partners,  and  turned  them  about, 
And  each  one,  alternate,  was  in  and  was  out. 

Some  kicked  and  some  floundered,  some  set  and  some 

bounded, 

'Till  the  music  was  drowned  —  the  figure  confounded  ; 
Some  danced  dos  a  dos,  and  some  danced  conireface, 
And  some  promenaded  —  and  all  lost  their  place. 


SCIRE  FACIAS.  89 

In  the  midst  of  this  great  pantomimic  balktte, 
What  guest  should  arrive  but  the  great  LA  FAYETTE  ! 
The  dancers  all  bowed,  and  the  fiddlers  changed  tune, 
Like  Apollo's  banjo  to  the  man  in  the  moon. 

How  sweet  were  the  notes,  and  how  bold  was  the  strain ! 
O,  when  shall  we  list  to  such  concord  again  ? 
The  hall  was  sky-covered  with  Freedom's  bright  arch, 
And  it  rung  to  the  music  of  Liberty's  march. 


SCIRE   FACIAS.* 

THE    BAR    VerSUS   THE    DOCKET. 


There  were  but  sixty-nine  new  entries  on  the  docket  of 
the  Hartford  County  Court,  at  a  late  session.  One  of  the 
most  important  causes  is  reported  below. 


THIS  action  was  brought  to  get  cash  from  the  pocket 
Of  a  debtor  absconding  and  absent,  called  Docket  — 
For  damage  sustained  by  the  Bar,  through  the  laches f 
Of  him  by  whose  means  the  said  Bar  cut  their  dashes. 


*  Make  him  to  know.  t  Neglect. 

I- 


90  SCIRE   FACIAS. 

They  copied  the  constable,  thinking  that  he 

Might  have  goods  in  his  hands,  and  be  made  Garni- 

shee  ;  * 

Who,  being  thus  summoned  to  show  cause,  appeared 
To  state  to  the  court  why  he  should  not  be  sheared.f 

Whereas,  said  the  Plaintiffs,  you  owe  us  our  living 
By  assumpsit  implied,  and  the  costs  you  must  give  in  — 
You  have  cheated  us  out  of  our  bread  and  our  butter, 
Et  alia  enormia,}  too  numerous  to  utter. 

Thus  solemnly  spoke  the  Bar's  counsel,  and  sighed  — 
The  Garnishee  plainly  and  frankly  replied, 
That  he  had  no  effects,  and  could  not  get  enough 
To  pay  his  own  debt,  which  he  thought  rather  tough. 

Then  came  pleas  and  rejoinders,  rebutters,  demurrers, 
Such  as  Chitty  would  plough  into  Richard  Roe's  fur 
rows  ;  — 

Cross  questions,  and  very  cross  answers,  to  suit  — 
So  the  gist  of  the  case  was  the  point  in  dispute.  § 


*  One  who,  being  supposed  to  have  in  his  hands  the  property 
of  an  absconded  debtor,  is  cited  to  show  whether  he  has  or  not. 

t  Not  a  law  term,  but  rather  a  termination  in  law. 

^  And  other  enormities. 

§  This  is  usually  the  fact  before  the  County  Court,  and  in 
deed  before  all  other  Courts. 


SCIRE   FACTAS.  91 

The  Judges  looked  grave,  as  indeed  well  they  might. 
For  one  party  was  wrong,  and  the  other  not  right ; 
The  sweeper  himself  thought  it  cruel  to  sue 
A  man,  just  because  he  had  nothing  to  do. 

The  Docket  non  ested,*  the  Garnishee  proved 
That  the  chattels  were  gone,  and  the  assets  removed — 
That  they  had  not  been  heard  of  for  full  half  a  year, 
So  he  took  to  the  Statute,  and  swore  himself  clear. 

The  case  being  simple  in  English,  the  Bench 
Resorted,  of  course,  to  their  old  Norman  French  ; 
But  the  Bar  being  frightened,  thought  best  to  defer  it, 
And  pray  out  the  writ  lalitat  et  discurrit.  f 

Then  a  motion  was  made  by  the  learned  debaters, 
That  the  sheriff  should  call  out  the  whole  comitatus — J 
Read  the  act  —  tell  the  posse,  instanter  to  hook  it, 
And  send  the  whole  hue  and  cry  after  the  Docket. 


*  Not  to  be  found.  t  Lurks  and  wanders. 

I  Posse  comitatus  -—  power  of  the  County. 


92 


JERUSALEM. 


The  following  intelligence  from  Constantinople  was  of  the 
llth  October,  1824.  —  "  A  severe  earthquake  is  said  to  have 
taken  place  at  Jerusalem,  which  has  destroyed  great  part  of 
that  city,  shaken  down  the  Mosque  of  Omar,  and  reduced  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  to  ruins  from  top  to  bottom." 

FOUR  lamps  were  burning  o'er  two  mighty  graves  — 
Godfrey's  and  Baldwin's  —  Salem's  Christian  kings  ; 

And  holy  light  glanced  from  Helena's  naves, 

Fed  with  the  incense  which  the  Pilgrim  brings,  — 
While  through  the  pannelled  roof  the  cedar  flings 

Its  sainted  arms  o'er  choir,  and  roof,  and  dome, 
And  every  porphyry-pillared  cloister  rings 

To  every  kneeler  there  its  "  welcome  home," 

As  every  lip  breathes  out,  "  O  Lord,  thy  kingdom 
come." 

A  mosque  was  garnished  with  its  crescent  moons, 
And  a  clear  voice  called  Mussulmans  to  prayer. 

There  were  the  splendors  of  Judea's  thrones  — 
There  were  the  trophies  which  its  conquerors  wear — 
All  but  the  truth,  the  holy  truth,  was  there  :  — 


JERUSALEM.  93 

For  there,  with  lip  profane,  the  crier  stood, 

And  him  from  the  tall  minaret  you  might  hear, 
Singing  to  all  whose  steps  had  thither  trod, 
That  verse  misunderstood, "  There  is  no  God  but  God." 

Hark  !  did  the  Pilgrim  tremble  as  he  kneeled  ? 

And  did  the  turbaned  Turk  his  sins  confess  ? 
Those  mighty  hands  the  elements  that  wield, 

That  mighty  power  that  knows  to  curse  or  bless, 

Is  over  all ;  and  in  whatever  dress 
His  suppliants  crowd  around  him,  He  can  see 

Their  heart,  in  city  or  in  wilderness, 
And  probe  its  core,  and  make  its  blindness  flee, 
Owning  Him  very  God,  the  only  Deity. 

There  was  an  earthquake  once  that  rent  thy  fane, 
Proud  Julian  ;  when  (against  the  prophecy 

Of  Hirn  who  lived,  and  died,  and  rose  again, 
"  That  one  stone  on  another  should  not  lie,") 
Thou  wouldst  rebuild  that  Jewish  masonry 

To  mock  the  eternal  word.  —  The  earth  below 
Gushed  out  in  fire  ;  and  from  the  brazen  sky, 

And  from  the  boiling  seas  such  wrath  did  flow, 

As  saw  not  Shinar's  plain,  nor  Babel's  overthrow. 

Another  earthquake  comes.     Dome,  roof,  and  wall 
Tremble  ;  and  headlong  to  the  grassy  bank, 

And  in  the  muddied  stream  the  fragments  fall, 
While  the  rent  chasm  spread  its  jaws,  and  drank 


-.it 


JERUSALEM. 


At  one  huge  draught,  the  sediment,  which  sank 
In  Salem's  drained  goblet.     Mighty  power! 

Thou    whom  we  all   should   worship,  praise,  and 

thank, 

Where  was  thy  mercy  in  that  awful  hour, 
When  hell  moved  from  beneath,  and  thine  own  heav 
en  did  lower  ? 

Say,  Pilate's  palaces  —  proud  Herod's  towers  — 

Say,  gate  of  Bethlehem,  did  your  arches  quake  ? 
Thy  pool,  Bethesda,  was  it  filled  with  showers  ? 

Calm  Gihon,  did  the  jar  thy  waters  wake  ? 

Tomb  of  thee,  Mary—  Virgin  —  did  it  shake  ? 
Glowed  thy  bought  field,  Aceldama,  with  blood  ? 

Where  were  the  shudderings  Calvary  might  make  ? 
Did  sainted  Mount  Moriah  send  a  flood, 
To  wash  away  the  spot  where  once  a  God  had  stood  ? 

Lost  Salem  of  the  Jews— great  sepulchre 
Of  all  profane  and  of  all  holy  things  — 

Where  Jew,  and  Turk,  and  Gentile  yet  concur 
To  make  thee  what  thou  art !  thy  history  brings 
Thoughts  mixed  of  joy  and  woe.     The  whole  earth 
rings 

With  the  sad  truth  which  He  has  prophesied, 
Who  would  have  sheltered  with  his  holy  wings 

Thee  and  thy  children.     You  his  power  defied : 

You  scourged  him  while  he  lived,  and  mocked  him  as 
he  died ! 


JERUSALEM.  95 

There  is  a  star  in  the  untroubled  sky, 

That  caught  the  first  light  which  its  Maker  made  — 
It  led  the  hymn  of  other  orbs  on  high  ;  — 

'T  will  shine  when  all  the  fires  of  heaven  shall  fade. 

Pilgrims  at  Salem's  porch,  be  that  your  aid ! 
For  it  has  kept  its  watch  on  Palestine  ! 

Look  to  its  holy  light,  nor  be  dismayed, 
Though  broken  is  each  consecrated  shrine, 
Though  crushed  and  ruined  all — which  men  have 
called  divine. 


NOTE.  —  Godfrey  and  Baldwin  were  the  first  Christian 
Kings  at  Jerusalem.  The  Empress  Helena,  mother  of  Con- 
stantine  the  Great,  built  the  church  of  the  sepulchre  on  Mount 
Calvary.  The  walls  are  of  stone  and  the  roof  of  cedar.  The 
four  lamps  which  light  it  are  very  costly.  It  is  kept  in  repair 
by  the  offerings  of  Pilgrims  who  resort  to  it.  The  Mosque 
was  originally  a  Jewish  Temple.  The  Emperor  Julian  under 
took  to  rebuild  the  temple  of  Jerusalem  at  very  great  ex 
pense,  to  disprove  the  prophecy  of  our  Saviour,  as  it  was  un 
derstood  by  the  Jews  ;  but  the  work  and  the  workmen  were 
destroyed  by  an  earthquake.  The  pools  of  Bethesda  and  Gi- 
hon  —  the  tomb  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  of  King  Jehoshaphat 
—  the  pillar  of  Absalom —the  tomb  of  Zachariah  —  and  the 
campo  santo,  or  holy  field,  which  is  supposed  to  have  been 
purchased  with  the  price  of  Judas's  treason,  are,  or  were  lately, 
the  most  interesting  parts  of  Jerusalem. 


ISAIAH,  CHAPTER  XXXV. 


A  ROSE  shall  bloom  in  the  lonely  place, 
A  wild  shall  echo  with  sounds  of  joy, 

For  heaven's  own  gladness  its  bounds  shall  grace. 
And  forms  angelic  their  songs  employ. 

And  Lebanon's  cedars  shall  rustle  their  boughs, 
And  fan  their  leaves  in  the  scented  air  ; 

And  Carmel  and  Sharon  shall  pay  their  vows, 
And  shout,  for  the  glory  of  God  is  there. 

O,  say  to  the  fearful,  be  strong  of  heart, 
He  comes  in  vengeance,  but  not  for  thee  ; 

For  thee  He  comes,  his  might  to  impart 

To  the  trembling  hand  and  the  feeble  knee. 

The  blind  shall  see,  the  deaf  shall  hear, 
The  dumb  shall  raise  their  notes  for  Him, 

The  lame  shall  leap  like  the  unharmed  deer, 
And  the  thirsty  shall  drink  of  the  holy  stream. 

And  the  parched  ground  shall  become  a  pool, 
And  the  thirsty  land  a  dew-washed  mead, 


THE   INDIAN  SUMMER.  97 

And  where  the  wildest  beasts  held  rula, 
The  harmless  of  His  fold  shall  feed. 

There  is  a  way,  and  a  holy  way, 
Where  the  unclean  foot  shall  never  tread, 

But  from  it  the  lowly  shall  not  stray. 
To  it  the  penitent  shall  be  led. 

No  lion  shall  rouse  him  from  his  lair, 
Nor  wild  beast  raven  in  foaming  rage ; 

But  the  redeemed  of  the  earth  shall  there 
Pursue  their  peaceful  pilgrimage. 

The  ransomed  of  God  shall  return  to  him 
With  a  chorus  of  joy  to  an  angel's  lay  ; 

With  a  tear  of  grief  shall  no  eye  be  dim, 
For  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee  away. 


THE    INDIAN   SUMMER. 


WHAT  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  Autumn  leaves  ? 
Have  they  that  "  green  and  yellow  melancholy  " 
That  the  sweet  poet  spake  of?  —  Had  he  seen 
Our  variegated  woods,  when  first  the  frost 


98  WRITTEN  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

Turns  into  beauty  all  October's  charms  — 

When  the  dread  fever  quits  us  —  when  the  storms 

Of  the  wild  Equinox,  with  all  its  wet, 

Has  left  the  land,  as  the  first  deluge  left  it, 

With  a  bright  bow  of  many  colors  hung 

Upon  the  forest  tops  —  he  had  not  sighed. 

The  moon  stays  longest  for  the  Hunter  now  : 
The  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the  blithe 
And  busy  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store  : 
While  man  enjoys  the  breeze  that  sweeps  along 
The  bright  blue  sky  above  him,  and  that  bends 
Magnificently  all  the  forest's  pride, 
Or  whispers  through  the  evergreens,  and  asks, 
"  What  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  Autumn  leaves  ? " 


WRITTEN  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 


SEE  to  your  book,  young  lady  ;  let  it  be 
An  index  to  your  life  —  each  page  be  pure, 
By  vanity  uncolored,  and  by  vice 
Unspotted.     Cheerful  be  each  modest  leaf, 
Not  rude  ;  and  pious  be  each  written  page, 
Without  hypocrisy,  be  it  devout ; 


ON    THE  LOSS  OF  A  PIOUS   FRIEND.  99 

Without  moroseness,  be  it  serious  ; 
If  sportive,  innocent :  and  if  a  tear 
Blot  its  white  margin,  let  it  drop  for  those 
Whose  wickedness  needs  pity  more  than  hate. 
Hate  no  one  —  hate  their  vices,  not  themselves. 
Spare  many  leaves  for  charity  —  that  flower 
That  better  than  the  rose's  first  white  bud 
Becomes  a  woman's  bosom.    There  we  seek 
And  there  we  find  it  first.     Such 'be  your  book, 
And  such,  young  lady,  always  may  you  be. 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  A  PIOUS  FRIEND. 


Imitated  from  the  57th  chapter  of  Isaiah. 


WHO  shall  weep  when  the  righteous  die  ? 

Who  shall  mourn  when  the  good  depart  ? 
When  the  soul  of  the  godly  away  shall  fly, 

Who  shall  lay  the  loss  to  heart  ? 

He  has  gone  into  peace  —  he  has  laid  him  down 
To  sleep  till  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day  ; 

And  he  shall  wake  on  that  holy  morn, 
When  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee  away. 


100  ON  THE  LOSS   OF  A  PIOUS    FRIEND. 

But  ye  who  worship  in  sin  and  shame 

Your  idol  gods,  whate'er  they  be  ; 
Who  scoff  in  your  pride  at  your  Maker's  name, 

By  the  pebbly  stream  and  the  shady  tree  — 

Hope  in  your  mountains,  and  hope  in  your  streams, 
Bow  down  in  their  worship  and  loudly  pray ; 

Trust  in  your  strength  and  believe  in  your  dreams, 
But  the  wind  shall  carry  them  all  away. 

There  's  one  who  drank  at  a  purer  fountain, 
One  who  was  washed  in  a  purer  flood: 

He  shall  inherit  a  holier  mountain, 
He  shall  worship  a  holier  God. 

But  the  sinner  shall  utterly  fail  and  die  — 
Whelmed  in  the  waves  of  a  troubled  sea  ; 

And  God  from  his  throne  of  light  on  high 
Shall  say,  there  is  no  peace  for  thee. 


101 


THE   TWO   COMETS. 


There  were  two  visible  at  the  time  this  was  written ;  and 
for  the  verses,  they  were,  on  other  accounts,  strictly  occa 
sional. 


THERE  once  dwelt  in  Olympus  some  notable  oddities, 
For  their  wild  singularities  called  Gods  and  God 
desses.  — 

But  one  in  particular  beat  'em  all  hollow, 
Whose  name,  style,  and  title  was  Phoebus  Apollo. 

Now  Phceb.  was  a  genius  — his  hand  he  could  turn 
To  any  thing,  every  thing  genius  can  learn  : 
Bright,  sensible,  graceful,  cute,  spirited,  handy, 
Well  bred,  well  behaved  —  a  celestial  Dandy  ! 
An  eloquent  god,  though  he  did  n't  say  much  ; 
But  he  drew  a   long  bow,  spoke  Greek,  Latin,  and 

Dutch  ; 

A  doctor,  a  poet,  a  soarer,  a  diver, 
And  of  horses  in  harness  an  excellent  driver. 

He  would  tackle  his  steeds  to  the  wheels  of  the  sun, 
And  he  drove  up  the  east  every  morning,  but  one ; 


102  THE   TWO   COMETS. 

When  young  Phaeton  begged  of  his  daddy  at  five, 
To  stay  with  Aurora  a  day,  and  he'd  drive. 
So  good-natured  Phoebus  gave  Phaey  the  seat, 
With   his  mittens,  change,  waybill,  and   stage-horn 

complete  ; 

To  the  breeze  of  the  morning  he  shook  his  bright  locks, 
Blew  the  lamps  of  the  night  out,  and  mounted  the 

box. 

The  crack  of  his  whip,  like  the  breaking  of  day, 
Warmed  the  wax  in  the  ears  of  the  leaders,  and  they 
With  a  snort,  like  the  fog  of  the  morning,  cleared  out 
For  the  west,  as  young  Phaey  meant  to  get  there 

about 
Two  hours  before  sunset. 

He  looked  at  his  "  turnip" 

And  to  make  the  delay  of  the  old  line  concern  up, 
He  gave  'em  the  reins  ;  and  from  Aries  to  Cancer, 
The  style  of  his  drive  on  the  road  seemed  to  answer ; 
But  at  Leo,  the  ears  of  the  near- wheel  horse  pricked, 
And  at  Virgo  the  heels  of  the  off  leader  kicked  ; 
Over  Libra  the  whiffle-tree  broke  in  the  middle, 
And  the  traces  snapped  short,  like  the   strings  of  a 

fiddle. 

One  wheel  struck  near  Scorpio,  who  gave  it  a  roll, 
And  set  it  to  buzz,  like  a  top,  round  the  pole  ; 
While  the  other  whizzed  back  with  its  linchpin  and 

hub, 
Or,  more  learnedly  speaking,  its  nucleus  or  nub  ; 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND  LEARNING  THE  FLUTE.      103 

And,  whether  in  earnest,  or  whether  in  fun, 
He  carried  away  a  few  locks  of  the  sun. 

The  state  of  poor  Phaeton's  coach  was  a  blue  one, 
And  Jupiter  ordered  Apollo  a  new  one  ; 
But  our  driver  felt  rather  too  proud  to  say  "  Whoa," 
Letting  horses,  and  harness,  and  every  thing  go 
At  their  terrified  pleasure  abroad  ;  and  the  muse 
Says,  they  cut  to  this  day  just  what  capers  they 

choose ; 

That  the  eyes  of  the  chargers  as  meteors  shine  forth ; 
That  their  manes  stream  along  in  the  lights  of  the 

north ; 
That  the  wheels  which  are  missing  are  comets,  that 

run 

As  fast  as  they  did  when  they  carried  the  sun  ; 
And  still  pushing  forward,  though  never  arriving, 
Think  the  west  is  before  them,  and  Phaeton  driving. 


TO  A  YOUNG   FRIEND   LEARNING   TO   PLAY 
THE  FLUTE. 


THERE  's  a  wild  harp,  which  unconfined  by  rule 
Of  science,  varies  with  the  varying  air, 
And  sympathizes  with  the  free-born  wind  ; 
Swelling,  whene'er  the  tempest  swells,  or  sad 


101    EXTRACTS  FROM  NEW-YEAR'S  VERSES  FOR  1825. 

When  the  soft  western-breeze  in  moans  goes  down, 
And  sighs,  and  dies  away.     'T  is  sweet  to  mark 
Its  tone,  and  listen  in  some  musing  mood 
To  its  strange  cadence.     Be  your  music  such, 
And  let  it  die  at  sundown  if  you  please. 


EXTRACTS    FROM   NEW-YEAR'S    VERSES    FOR 
1825. 

I  LOVE  the  "  Universal  Yankee  Nation," 

Where'er  they  are  —  whate'er  they  are  about, 

Whatever  be  their  wealth,  or  rank,  or  station, 
Their  character  or  conduct.     They  are  out 

Upon  parole,  or  suff 'ranee,  or  probation, 

On  horse-back,  or  on  foot  —  and  some,  no  doubt, 

In  coaches,  or  in  Congress  !  —  bless  the  land, 

It  is  a  thing  I  cannot  understand. 

By  Yankee,  I  mean  every  man  that 's  born 
Within  a  tract  of  country,  bounded  East 

By  the  Atlantic  —  South,  (not  by  Cape  Horn) 
But  by  Long  Island  Sound,  and  on  the  West 

By  New  York  State  ;  northward  by  the  forlorn 
Hope  of  the  British,  (a  poor  rhyme  at  best) 

Mountains  and  rocks  and  rivers  far  away, 

That  see  six  months  of  night,  and  six  of  day. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  NEW-YEAR'S  VERSES  FOR  1825.     105 

These  Yankees  are  a  scattered  race  —  each  breeze 
That  sweeps  a  prairie,  or  that  wakes  a  wave, 

Is  their  acquaintance  ;  forests,  lakes,  and  seas 

Know  them  —  adventurous,   cunning,  tough,  and 
brave, 

Shrewd  and  inquisitive  ;  they  know  their  P's 

And  Q's.    They  know  to  earn,  and  get,  and  save ; 

Arid  if  they  break  a  thing,  why,  they  can  mend  it:  — 

Their  cash  they  get  abroad,  and  then  come  home  to 
spend  it. 

Plymouth  and  Bunker  Hill  are  Yankee  places, 
And  them  I  '11  celebrate  with  pen  and  ink  ; 

They  are  the  themes  of  glory  —  and  the  traces 
Of  blood  and  prayer  are  on  their  brow  and  brink ; 

And  every  reverential  thought  which  graces 
The  Yankee  heart,  that  will  but  stop  and  think 

Of  what  those  fathers  were,  is  like  the  tear 

Which  children  shed  upon  a  parent's  bier. 

That  silent,  moonlight  march  to  Bunker  Hill, 

With  spades,  and  swords,  bold  hearts,  and  ready 

hands, 
That  Spartan  step  without  their  flutes  —  that  still, 

Hushed,  solemn  music  of  the  heart,  commands 
More  than  the  trumpet's  echo  —  't  is  the  thrill 
That  thoughts  of  well-loved  homes,  and  streams,  and 
lands, 


IDG 


EXTRACTS  FROM  NEW-YEAR'S  VERSES  FOR  1825. 


Awaken  when  men  go  into  the  fight, 

As  did  the  men  at  Bunker  Hill  that  night. 

And  blessed  be  that  ever-coming  wave, 

That  wets  the  rock  where  the  old  Pilgrims  landed  ; 
Thrice  blessed  be  that  foothold  of  the  brave, 

Where  Freedom  stood,  and  Tyranny  was  stranded  ; 
Where  Persecution,  baffled,  found  its  grave, 

And  naked  Liberty  —  there  —  single  handed, 
Met  foe  and  famine,  pestilence  and  wrath, 
And  stayed  till  nought  was  left  to  cross  her  path. 

Such  themes  are  far  too  eloquent  for  me, 
And  few  or  none  can  do  them  justice  ;  yet 

T  would  be  a  proud  day  in  one's  life  to  see 
The  look  of  Webster  — or  to  hear  Fayette 

Give  his  last  blessing  to  that  Hill,  and  be 

Near  the  brave  spot  with  Warren's  life-blood  wet  — 

That  glorious  lachrymal  of  patriot's  tears  — 

And  boast  of  such  a  sight  in  after  years. 


107 


THE  DOG-WATCH. 


On  the  homeward  passage,  in  the  merchant  service,  the 
mate  keeps  the  watch  from  six  to  eight.  This  is  called  the 
Dog-Watch. 


SWEEP  on,  the  wave  is  curled  with  foam, 
Sweep  on,  the  tide  is  bearing  home, 

Sweep  on,  the  breeze  is  fair  ; 
The  sun  himself  hastes  to  the  West, 
Where  lies  the  home  that  I  love  best,  — 
Wave,  tide,  and  breeze  may  rage  or  rest 

When  I  get  there. 

The  twilight  smiles  upon  the  sea, 
The  stars  shine  out  to  pilot  me  ; 

And  one,  amidst  the  glare 
Of  all  their  host,  —  the  evening  star 
Stoops  sweetly  o'er  my  home  afar, 
And  says  no  storm  my  course  shall  mar, 

Till  I  get  there. 

The  list'ning  of  an  anxious  ear, 
The  gaze  that  brightens  through  a  tear, 
Out-feel  the  watcher's  round. 


108  SONNET. 

/  only  hear  the  breakers  roar, 
1  only  see  my  own  dear  shore, 
'T  is  1  that  soon  shall  tread  once  more 
My  native  ground. 


SONNET. 

TO    A    LADY    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MRS. 


WEEP,  if  you  have  a  tear  to  spare, 
For  her  who  once  like  you  was  fair ; 
Who  led  like  you  the  dance  and  song, 
And  tripped  bright  fashion's  paths  along  - 
Who  in  maturer  years  looked  round 
With  circumspective  eye  —  that  found 
Beneath  the  circuit  of  the  sun 
Nought  it  could  safely  rest  upon. 

That  eye  looked  upward,  far  away, 

And  gazed  upon  another  day. 

Closed  its  pure  lid  on  all  below  — 

Sin,  folly,  vanity,  and  woe  : 

On  Death's  black  wing  her  willing  flight 

Rose  into  uncreated  light. 


109 


SKETCH   OF  AJN  OCCURRENCE   ON   BOARD 
A   BRIG. 


THE  sun's  beam  and  the  moon's  beam  check  the  sea, 

The  light  wave  smiles  in  both,  and  sportingly 

Catching  the  silver  on  its  deep  blue  side, 

Throws  it  in  spangles  on  the  westering  tide, 

And  tints  the  golden  edges  of  the  beam 

That  last  and  sweetest  trembles  on  the  stream  ; 

For  sure  't  is  moonlight  —  see  the  sun  give  way, 

And  yon  fair  orb  light  up  another  day, 

A  calmer,  softer  morning  than  the  hour 

Of  real  morn,  howe'er  bedecked  with  flower, 

Or  bud,  or  song,  or  dew-drop  —  the  sun's  feast, 

Or  all  the  gorgeous  glories  of  the  East. 

What  boat  is  that !  yon  lonely  little  boat, 
Sculling  and  rippling  through  the  shades,  that  float 
On  yon  sequestered  bay  ;  and  mark  the  trees, 
Bending  so  beautifully  in  the  breeze. 
It  steals  from  out  the  shade,  and  now  the  tide 
Presses  its  bow  and  chafes  against  its  side  ; 


110  AN   OCCURRENCE   ON   BOARD   A  BRIG. 

She  seems  to  wear  her  way  with  little  strength, 
Feeble,  but  yet  determined,  till  at  length 
The  skiff  comes  near  and  nearer  — "boat  ahoy  ! 
What  scull  is  that,  and  who  are  you,  my  boy  ?" 


There  is  a  tear  in  that  young,  sullen  eye, 
That  looks  riot  like  a  boy's  tear,  soon  to  dry  ; 
There  is  a  tremor  on  his  lip  and  chin, 
A  mixed  up  look  — half  feeling  and  half  sin. 
Panting  with  toil  or  anger,  now  he  stands 
Upon  the  deck,  and  wrings  his  blistered  hands, 
Too  proud  to  weep,  —  too  young  to  wear  the  face 
Of  manhood  steeled  to  danger,  pain,  disgrace ; 
There  was  in  lip,  and  cheek,  and  brow,  and  eye, 
A  gesture  of  each  thought's  variety, 
While  leaning  sadly  'gainst  the  vessel's  wale, 
He  told,  in  broken  words,  a  common  tale. 
He  was  a  runaway,  —  had  left  the  shore, 
Stolen  a  boat,  a  jacket,  and  an  oar, 
And  come  on  board  our  brig,  "  in  hopes  that  we," 
(He  said,)  "  would  take  him  with  us  out  to  sea." 
The  captain  hushed  at  once  the  poor  boy's  fears : 
— We  want  a  cabin  boy  —  dry  up  your  tears  ; 
The  wind  calls  for  us,  spread  the  loftiest  sail, 
And  catch  the  top-most  favor  of  the  gale  ; 
The  tide  sets  out,  the  ocean  's  on  the  lea, 
Gayly  we  '11  plough  our  furrow  through  the  sea. 


AN   OCCURRENCE   ON  BOARD  A  BRIG.  Ill 


III. 

The  eye,  the  ear,  the  nostril,  and  the  heart, 
How  they  do  snuff  and  listen,  gaze,  and  start, 
When  the  brave  vessel  strains  each  brace  and  line, 
Mounts  the  mad  wave,  and,  dashing  through  its  brine, 
Flies  from  the  thick'ning  anger  of  the  spray, 
And  doubly  swift  leaps  forward  on  her  way  ; 
While  the  keen  seaman  takes  his  watchful  stand, 
And  feels  the  tiller  tremble  in  his  hand  — 
Or  lashed  securely  on  the  sea-washed  side, 
Heaves  lead,  or  log,  and  sings  how  fast  they  glide. 

But  that  young  boy.     I  think  I  see  him  now, 
With  death  upon  his  eye-lid  and  his  brow  ; 
That  eye  so  blue  and  clear,  that  forehead  fair, 
Those  ringlets,  too,  of  close-curled,  glossy  hair, 
That  hectic  flush,  which  to  the  last  grew  bright, 
As  his  next  world's  young  dawning  grew  more  light ;  — 
Yes  !  that  young  boy  —  the  danger  and  the  pain 
Of  hardships  past  —  the  thought  that  ne'er  again 
His  foot  might  press  the  paths  his  boyhood  loved, 
Or  his  hand  lift  the  latchet  unreproved, 
His  ear  hear  sweet  forgiveness  —  or  his  eye 
See  those  he  loved  even  from  his  infancy,  — 
And  then  the  giddy  whirl  of  his  young  brain, 
Upon  the  rushing,  changing,  tumbling  main, 
Without  a  friend  to  look  at,  by  his  side, 
He  wept,  and  said  his  prayers,  and  groaned,  and  died. 


112  AN   OCCURRENCE  ON  BOARD   A  BRIG. 


IV. 

They  plunged  him,  when  the  winds  were  up,  and  when 
The  sharks  played  round  this  floating  home  of  men ; 
When  the  strained  timbers  groaned  in  every  wave, 
And  the  rough  cordage  screamed  above  his  grave ; 
When  the  wild  winds  wove  many  a  sailor's  shroud 
Of  darkness  in  the  red-edged  thunder  cloud  ; 
While  in  the  dread  black  pauses  of  the  storm, 
The  stunned  ear  heard  his  moan,  the  shut  eye  saw  his 

form. 

Had  it  been  calm  —  had  dolphins  played  in  rings, 
And  flying  fishes  sunned  their  wetted  wings  ; 
Had  the  sweet  south  but  breathed  to  smooth  the  sea, 
And  evening,  for  one  hour,  looked  tranquilly ; 
Or  had  some  tomb-like  iceberg  floated  on 
The  spot,  as  the  retiring  sun  went  down, 
Or  the  black  Peteril  on  mid-ocean's  surge 
Sung  to  the  Albatross  the  poor  boy's  dirge,  — 
One  might  have  blest  the  far  off,  long  lost  spot 
Where  to  the  deepest  depths  he  sunk  and  was  forgot 
Silent  they  bore  him  to  the  vessel's  side, 
Silent  the  hammock  and  the  rope  they  eyed, 
With  thoughtful  look,  a  moment  there  they  stood, 
And  gazed  an  instant  on  the  yawning  flood  ; 
A  sailor's  prayer,  a  sailor's  tear,  were  all 
They  had  to  give  him,  but  a  sailor's  pall  — 
They  plunged  him  in  the  water,  and  the  shark 
Plunged  after  him,  down,  down,  into  the  dark. 


AN   OCCURRENCE   ON  BOARD   A  BRIG.  113 


V. 

On  rolls  the  storm  —  once  more  the  sky  is  blue, 
And  there  is  mirth  among  the  hardy  crew  ; 
The  port  is  gained,  the  vessel  waits  the  breeze, 
To  bear  her  once  again  o'er  tides  and  seas 
Back  to  her  home  :  our  native  hills  once  more 
Send  the  land  breezes  from  the  well-known  shore, 
And,  as  the  joys  and  pains  of  memory  come, 
The  questioned  pilot  tells  us  news  of  home. 

Once  more  upon  the  land !  —  What  sweet-eyed  girl 
With  long  bright  locks,  clustered  in  many  a  curl 
Round  her  white  polished  forehead,  sits  alone 
In  anxious  sadness  on  yon  wave  washed  stone  ! 
Her  eye  looks  searchingly  from  face  to  face, 
One  long  sought  look  or  lineament  to  trace ; 
In  vain  the  ear  grates  to  each  loud  rough  cry 
Of  boisterous  welcome,  or  of  coarse  reply, — 
In  vain  that  hand  is  stretched  his  hand  to  grasp,. 
In  vain  those  arms  his  well  loved  form  to  clasp ; 
A  few  shrill  piercing  words  — 't  was  all  she  said  — 
"  O  tell  me,  is  my  brother  " "  he  is  dead."  — 

As  the  struck  bird  will  rise  upon  the  wing, 
And  whirl  aloft  in  agonizing  swing, 
Then  seek  the  darkest  covert  of  the  wood, 
To  pant,  and  bleed,  and  die  in  solitude  — 


114  STANZAS. 

That  fair  form  flitted  to  the  forest  shade, 

Where  sank,  and  died  alone,  the  broken-hearted  maid, 


STANZAS. 


THE  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest  walk, 

And  withered  are  the  pale  wild  flowers  ; 
The  frost  hangs  black'ning  on  the  stalk, 

The  dew  drops  fall  in  frozen  showers. 

Gone  are  the  Spring's  green  sprouting  bowers, 
Gone  Summer's  rich  and  mantling  vines, 

And  Autumn,  with  her  yellow  hours, 
On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  shines. 

I  learned  a  clear  and  wild-toned  note, 

That  rose  and  swelled  from  yonder  tree  — 
A  gay  bird,  with  too  sweet  a  throat, 

There  perched  and  raised  her  song  for  me. 

The  winter  comes,  and  where  is  she  ? 
Away  —  where  summer  wings  will  rove, 

Where  buds  are  fresh,  and  every  tree 

Is  vocal  with  the  notes  of  love. 

Too  mild  the  breath  of  southern  sky, 
Too  fresh  the  flower  that  blushes  there, 


RE  VERY.  115 

The  northern  breeze  that  rustles  by, 

Finds  leaves  too  green,  and  buds  too  fair ; 
No  forest  tree  stands  stripped  and  bare, 

No  stream  beneath  the  ice  is  dead, 
No  mountain  top  with  sleety  hair 

Bends  o'er  the  snows  its  reverend  head. 

Go  there,  with  all  the  birds,  —  and  seek 

A  happier  clime,  with  livelier  flight, 
Kiss,  with  the  sun,  the  evening's  cheek, 

And  leave  me  lonely  with  the  night. 

—  I  '11  gaze  upon  the  cold  north  light, 
And  mark  where  all  its  glories  shone  — 

See  — that  it  all  is  fair  and  bright, 
Feel  — that  it  all  is  cold  and  gone. 


REVERT. 


YES,  there  are  thoughts  that  have  no  sound  —  such 

thoughts 

That  no  coined  phrase  of  words  can  utter  them  ! 
The  tongue  would  syllable  their  shapes  in  vain  — 
The  cautious  pen,  even  in  a  master's  hand, 
Finds  nothing  at  its  point  to  mark  them  with. 


116  REVERY. 

No  earthly  note  can  touch  these  airy  chords ; 

'T  is  silent  music  —  indescribable. 

We  hear  it  when  the  ear  is  shut,  and  see 

Its  beauties  when  the  eye  is  closed  in  sleep ; 

We  feel  it  when  the  nerves  are  all  at  rest  — 

When  the  heart  stops,  and  the  charmed  soul  throbs  on. 

The  immaterial  pulses  of  that  soul 

Will  revel  to  its  harmonies,  as  if 

Even  in  this  mortal  life  't  were  "fancy  free  " 

From  the  gross  business  of  the  body's  care. 

These  are  not  of  our  make  —  they  come  sometimes, 
When  the  sad  sleeper  has  forgot  his  woes, 
And  given  his  agonies  awhile  to  rest. 
Through  the  still  watches  of  the  solemn  night, 
They  pace  with  fairy  feet  the  labyrinths 
Of  the  brain's  thousand  cares,  and  lightly  sweep 
Its  pains  away  for  many  a  star-lit  hour  — 
—  But  then  the  morning  comes,  and  where  are  they  ? 
Perhaps  they  visit  to  console  the  good  — 
Perchance  to  hurry  on  to  his  dark  fate 
The  bad,  and  strew  with  flowers  his  way  to  death. 


117 


NEW   YEAR'S   VERSES. 

FOR    THE    CARRIER    OF     THE    MIRROR.    1826. 

THE  carrier  is  a  poor  old  man  — 
See  his  gray  locks,  his  wrinkles  scan, 

Look  at  him  and  admire  ! 
His  coat  is  thin,  his  jacket  torn, 
All  but  his  fob  and  pockets  worn  — 

Such  is  his  poor  attire. 

And  what  the  scorching  sun  could  throw  - 
And  what  the  winter's  pelting  snow 

Could  give  him,  he  has  stood. 
There  is  one  earthly  torment  lacking  — 
One  other  process  —  that  of  hacking  :  — 

He  has  not  been  reviewed. 

Now  for  our  annual  New  Year's  song. 
Short  was  the  year,  and  not  too  long 

Shall  be  the  rhymer's  strain  : 
It  tells  of  all  that  all  well  know, 
'T  is  mixed  of  folly  and  of  woe  — 

Of  happiness,  and  pain. 


118  NEW  YEAR'S   VERSES. 

How  like  the  seasons  was  the  year! 

Now  rough,  and  rude — now  mild,  and  clear, 

Like  March,  and  June  together : 
Now  sweeping  on  with  fury's  blast  — 
Now  stilly  breathing  on  the  past, 

And  calming  all  its  weather. 

When  streams  were  stiff  and  snow  was  deep- 
When  Statesmen's  promises  were  cheap, 

And  honesty  near  frozen ; 
When  votes  were  counted,  State  by  State, 
Mid  friends  and  foes  — mid  joy  and  hate, 

A  President  was  chosen. 

Curst  was  the  siroc,  steaming  hot, 
When  patriot  against  patriot 

Was  set  in  mad  array  ; 
And  doubly.'curst  that  poisoned  trail, 
That  lingers,  when  the  sweeping  gale 

Has  moaned  and  died  away. 

Our  tree  was  fair  in  trunk  and  shoot, 
Its  verdant  boughs  bore  flower  and  fruit 

That  ripened  in  the  sun  ; 
Why  should  the  bramble  shoot  its  thorn, 
When  of  the  fruits  these  stems  had  borne 

The  hand  could  pluck  but  one. 


NEW  YEAR'S  VERSES.  119 

Fayette  !  the  skies  were  bright  to  thee, 
And  our  small  State  right  proud  may  be 

That  on  thy  stormy  track, 
Her  sons  were  guides  ;  for  she  may  boast, 
That  ALLEN  brought  thee  to  our  coast, 

And  MORRIS  bore  thee  back. 

How  did  the  blessed  rainbow  shed 
Its  gorgeous  colors  on  your  head, 

When  first  you  saw  the  shore  : 
How  did  it  arch  above  your  sail, 
And  span  the  bay,  and  tinge  the  gale, 

And  dye  the  waters  o'er. 

The  Cadmus  saw  its  tinted  line,  — 
It  smiled  upon  the  Brandywine  ; 

And  how  it  shone  on  high, 
He  who  can  paint  a  rainbow's  hues, 
And  dip  his  pencil  in  its  dews, 

May  better  tell  than  I. 

Warm  be  your  hearth,  and  full  your  store 
And  open  as  your  hand,  your  door ;  — 

And  gently  on  your  heart 
Fall  every  blessing  Heaven  can  shed, 
Upon  the  virtuous  patriot's  head, 

Till  soul  and  body  part. 


120  NEW  YEAR'S   VERSES. 

I  hear  a  sorrowing  western  breeze, 
Sigh  from  Charnplain's  dark  ice-girt  seas 

Yet  't  is  a  wind-harp  strain  ;  — 
It  mourns  so  sweetly,  that  its  tone 
Has  consolation  in  its  moan, 

And  soothing  in  its  pain. 

Brave  Downie  !  thou  had'st  often  seen 
The  bold  in  combat,  and  had'st  been 

Where  decks  and  waves  were  gore ; 
Thy  gallant  foe,  thy  noble  friend, 
Has  met  in  peace  a  Christian's  end,  — 

Macdonough  is  no  more. 

He  sleeps  in  quiet,  by  the  side 

Of  wife  and  children  dear  ;  —  nor  pride 

Nor  pomp  his  tomb  adorning  : 
The  clods,  the  dust,  his  body  cover, 
But  round  him  shall  the  angels  hover, 

"  Till  the  bright  morning." 


On  Groton  heights,  the  lazy  cow 

Is  grazing  round  the  grass-grown  brow 

That  once,  in  days  gone  by, 
Was  rough  with  pike  and  bayonet, 
Stained  with  the  carnage  red  and  wet, 

Of  brave  men  met  to  die. 


NEW   YEAR'S   VERSES.  121 

They  died.  —  And  must  their  memories  die  ? 
O  !  the  weeper's  sob  and  the  mourner's  sigh 

Are  quickly,  quickly  gone. 
To  the  devotion  of  that  band, 
That  cutlass  drew  and  rampart  manned, 
That  fought  their  foe  man  hand  to  hand, 
That  saved  the  honor  of  your  land, 
And  died  where  their  intrenchments  stand, 

Ye  will  not  raise  a  stone. 

But  be  it  so.    Whate'er  the  cause, 
They  fought  not  thus  for  vain  applause  — 

'T  was  patriot  duty  pressed  them  ; 
And  in  their  rough  and  gory  shroud, 
Without  the  purple  of  the  proud, 

God  in  his  mercy  rest  them. 

Yet  shall  those  graves,  unknown  so  long 
To  memory's  tear  and  glory's  song, 

Be  ever  blest. 

Green,  rank,  and  bright  the  turf  shall  grow 
Above  the  mouldered  bones  below  — 

"  Rest,  warriors,  rest." 


Now  sullenly  the  damp  winds  blow, 
And  muddily  the  waters  flow, 


122  TO   A  DEAF   AND  DUMB   LADY. 

And  fast  the  rain-drops  fall ; 
Such  is  the  time  to  hope  that  soon 
A  heaven-bright  sun,  a  cloudless  moon, 

Shall  shine  upon  us  all. 

The  time  is  up,  the  morrow's  dawn 
Breaks  on  a  purer,  holier  morn 

Than  Pagan  new-year's  day  ; 
It  comes  not  out  in  mirth  and  song, 
It  calls  the  vain  world's  passing  throng, 

To  meet,  and  praise,  and  pray. 

How  should  this  hour,  between  the  day 
When  God  to  Israel's  array 

Proclaimed  the  holy  rest  — 
And  that  which  saw  a  Saviour  rise, 
With  our  redemption  to  the  skies  — 

HOAV  should  such  hour  be  blessed. 


TO   A   DEAF   AND   DUMB    LADY. 


I  WISH  —  'tis  no  concern  of  mine, 
But  yet  I  wish  that  you  would  try 

The  painter's  brush,  and  trace  the  line 
Of  grace  or  beauty  by  the  eye  ;  — 


TO   A  DEAF   AND  DUMB  LADY.  123 

And  teach  the  hand  the  tongue's  strange  art 
To  tell  the  stories  of  the  heart. 

For  you  have  never  heard  a  sound,  — 
Have  never  uttered  with  the  tongue 

The  music  of  your  looks,  nor  found 
A  voice  their  sweetness  to  prolong. 

Shall  such  soul  in  such  body  dwell, 

A  pearl  within  a  pearly  shell  ? 

Try  !  words  are  colors ;  —  Feeling  lays 
Their  tints  on  memory's  open  page, 

Now  bright,  now  soft,  now  dim  their  rays, 
They  gleam  in  youth  and  fade  in  age. 

Yet  when  their  hues  are  gone,  each  stain 

That  daubed  their  beauties  will  remain. 

A  purer  pallet  grace  your  hand, 

A  purer  pencil  follow  on, 
(Obedient  to  the  eye's  command,) 

The  objects  that  you  think  upon. 
For  you,  from  half  our  frailties  free, 
Might  paint  a  page  of  purity. 

I  Ve  seen  what  I  would  you  could  see, 
The  calm,  the  breeze,  the  gale,  the  motion 

Of  elements  combined  —  yet  free, 
Each  for  itself,  to  vex  the  ocean  ; 


124  AN   EVENING  CLOUD. 

And  thought  that  words  would  ill  supply 
The  cravings  of  the  straining  eye. 

I  Ve  seen  what  you  have  seen,  the  sky 
As  pure  as  innocence  could  make  it, 

As  blue  and  bright  as  beauty's  eye, 
With  not  a  tearful  wink  to  shake  it. 

Ask  not  for  words  in  such  an  hour, 

Nor  the  ear's  listening — listening  power. 

Sense  is  not  competent  to  tell 

The  strivings  of  the  clay-bound  soul ; 

Thoughts  high  as  heaven  and  deep  as  hell, 
Will  awfully  around  it  roll  ; 

And  words  are  sacrilege,  that  dare 

Its  fearful  workings  to  declare. 


AN   EVENING   CLOUD. 


YON  cloud,  't  is  bright  and  beautiful  — it  floats 

Alone  in  God's  horizon  — on  its  edge 

The  stars  seem  hung  like  pearls  —  it  looks  as  pure 

As  't  were  an  angel's  shroud  —  the  white  cymar 

Of  Purity  just  peeping  through  its  folds, 

To  give  a  pitying  look  on  this  sad  world. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ALEXANDER.        125 

Go  visit  it,  and  find  that  all  is  false ; 
Its  glories  are  but  fog —  and  its  white  form 
Is  plighted  to  some  thunder-gust. — 
The  rain,  the  wind,  the  lightning  have  their  source 
In  such  bright  meetings.     Gaze  not  on  the  clouds, 
However  beautiful  —  Gaze  at  Ihe  sky  — 
The  clear,  blue,  tranquil,  fixed,  and  glorious  sky. 


ON   THE   DEATH  OF  ALEXANDER, 

EMPEROR    OF    THE    RUSSIAS,    AT     TAGANROK. 


NAPOLEON  died  upon  Helena's  rock  ;  — 

Round  and  beneath  were  piled  and  stored  the  waves, 

Mighty  and  fathomless.     Atlantic's  shock 

Recoiled,  and  through  its  deepest,  coldest  caves, 
Of  pillared  spar  and  coral  architraves, 

Did  ocean's  homage  to  that  strange  man's  death. 
Bad  was  he,  but  yet  great.     Of  kings,  of  slaves, 

Of  popes,  the  equal  dread.     His  latest  breath 

Fell  where  the  waters  washed  to  shore  his  sea-green 
wreath. 

But  thou,  by  Asian  Azof's  shallow  pool, 
Where  the  Don  pours  its  tributary  mud, 

Where  nought  but  cold  Cimmerian  blasts  have  rule, 
And  Kalmuck's  hungry  Tartars  fight  for  food  ; 


126  ON  THE  DEATH   OF  ALEXANDER. 

Thou,  whom  we  once  thought  wise,  and  great,  and 

good  — 
Peace,  such  as  thou  did'st  wish  to  all,  abide 

With  thee  —  a  despot's  peace.     So  let  the  flood 
Of  memory  stagnate  round  thee,  like  the  tide 
That  washes  Taganrok  from  Azof's  shallowest  side. 

Then  let  the  Cossack  trail  his  barb'rous  lance, 
And  learn  to  do  the  obsequies  of  Czars  ; 

Teach  his  wild  horse  around  thy  grave  to  prance, 
And  know  the  sounds  of  amens  from  hurras. 
He,  paid  in  plunder  for  his  wounds  and  scars, 

Rejoices  that  another  chance  may  come, 

When  southward,  in  the  strife  of  Turkish  wars, 
That  horse  shall  hear  Tambourgi's  muffled  drum, 

And  trample,  not  as  now,  on  many  a  lordly  tomb. 


Fair  Liberty  !     Nor  he  of  Helen's  Isle, 

Nor  he  of  Azof's  side,  were  born  of  thee  ; 
Children  of  cruelty,  long  nursed  by  guile, 

They  claim  no  tear  of  tribute  from  the  free. 

Then  let  the  despots  rest.     But  where  is  he 
Who,  pure  in  life,  majestic  in  his  fall, 

Lay  down  beneath  his  native  cedar-tree  ? 
Potomac's  wave,  Mount  Vernon's  grassy  pall, 
That  wraps   his  relics  round,  O !    these   are  worth 
them  all. 


127 


SNOW   IN   APRIL. 


"  My  head  is  gray,  but  not  with  years." 

AN  April  snow  !  —  't  is  as  the  head  of  youth 
Just  freshening  in  the  spring-time  of  its  hopes, 
And  glancing  to  the  sunbeam  the  bright  eye, 
And  to  the  first  rose  pouting  its  rich  lip, 
Or  turning  to  the  morning's  blush  its  cheek, 
And  to  the  morning's  music  its  young  ear  — 
Dimpling  its  chin,  as  April's  rain-drops  fall 
On  the  brook's  eddy,  —  't  is  as  if  such  head 
Of  smile,  and  bloom,  and  dimple,  were  adorned 
With  the  white  locks  of  age,  that  venerably 
Spread  monitorial  sadness  —  premature  ; 
Weaving  the  bleached  and  silvery  threads  of  time, 
On  the  bright  texture  of  a  glad  boy's  eyelash. 

So  move  we  on.    I  Ve  seen  the  eye  of  age 
Bright  to  the  last  as  that  of  Moses  was,  — 
I  've  marked  the  foot-falls  of  a  man,  whose  years 
Were  more  than  eighty  —  firm  and  active  too. 


123         TO  A  LADY  WHO  HAD  LOST  A  RELATIVE. 

Who  has  not  seen  the  young  lid  close  in  pain, 
The  young  knee  tremble,  and  the  young  heart  sink. 
And  age,  old  age,  encourage  and  support, 
Even  as  the  tree  stands,  when  the  buds  are  nipped. 
Tenacious  'till  they  would  fall  off,  —and  then 
Bearing  the  loss !— I've  wandered  from  the  theme  — 
Why  should  I  not  ?     "  My  heart  is  in  the  coffin," 
Long  shall  I  "  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me." 


TO  A  LADY  WHO  HAD  LOST  A  RELATIVE. 


No  more  to  grace  the  happy  hearth, 
To  grace  the  cheerful  board,  no  more 

To  light  with  smiles  the  misty  path 
That  leads  to  the  eternal  shore, 
Arrived  —  embarked,  and  all  is  o'er. 

The  sunny  curl,  the  bright  blue  eye, 
The  form,  the  soul  are  gone  before, 

And  we  must  follow  on,  and  die. 

And  she,  the  aged  one,  bereaved, 
Sits  lonely  in  a  daughter's  chair, 

Submissive  to  God's  will,  yet  grieved, 
Raising  to  Heaven  the  silent  prayer ; 
Her  faith  and  love  and  hopes  are  there 


THE    MOCKING-BIRD.  129 


But  where  are  yours  ?  and  where  are  mine  ? 

The  prospect,  is  it  bright  or  drear  ? 
The  comfort,  human  or  divine  ? 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 


IT  has  a  strange  wild  note  —  that  Mocking-bird, 
I  've  heard  him  whistle  to  the  passer  by, 
And  scold  like  any  parrot.    Now  his  note 
Mounts  to  the  play-ground  of  the  lark  —  high  up, 
Quite  to  the  sky.     And  then  again  it  falls, 
As  a  lost  star  falls,  down  into  the  marsh, 
The  veriest  puddle  —  but  it  stops  not  thus  ; 
'T  will  croak  like  any  bull-frog,  or  't  will  squeal 
Like  an  old  rat,  caught  tight  in  the  toothed  spring 
Of  man's  humane  contrivancy  —  and  then 
Rejoicing,  mock  the  trap,  and  yell  out  "  cheese." 
So  mock  we  all,  and  so  we  imitate 
The  good  a  little,  and  the  bad  a  deal. 
The  notes  of  heaven,  of  earth,  sometimes  of  hell 
Are  on  our  tongue-tips.     Hear  the  little  wretch, 
How  he  does  sing,  and  scream,  and  mock  us  all. 


130 


THE   SWEETBRIER. 


OUR  sweet  autumnal  western-scented  wind 
Robs  of  its  odors  none  so  sweet  a  flower, 

In  all  the  blooming  waste  it  left  behind, 

As  that  the  sweetbrier  yields  it.     And  the  shower 
Wets  not  a  rose  that  buds  in  beauty's  bower 

One  half  so  lovely, — yet  it  grows  along 

The  poor  girl's  pathway  —  by  the  poor  man's  door. 

Such  are  the  simple  folks  it  dwells  among : 

And  humble  as  the  bud,  so  humble  be  the  song. 

I  love  it,  for  it  takes  its  untouched  stand 
Not  in  the  vase  that  sculptors  decorate,  — 

Its  sweetness  all  is  of  my  native  land, 
And  e'en  its  fragrant  leaf  has  not  its  mate 
Among  the  perfumes  which  the  rich  and  great 

Buy  from  the  odors  of  the  spicy  east. 

You  love  your  flowers  and  plants  —  and  will  you 
hate 

The  little  four-leaved  rose  that  I  love  best. 

That  freshest  will  awake,  and  sweetest  go  to  rest  ? 


131 


SONG  — IF  I   COULD   LOVE. 


IF  I  could  love,  1  'd  find  me  out 
A  roguish,  laughing  eye, 

A  cheek  to  blush,  a  lip  to  pout, 
A  pure,  kind  heart,  to  sigh. 

A  fairy  hand,  to  touch  and  glance, 
From  note  to  note  with  glee, 

A  fairy  foot  to  trip  the  dance 
And  lead  it  down  with  me. 

A  soul  to  share  in  all  my  fun, 
And  feel  for  all  my  woes, 

And  as  our  little  life  should  run 
To  take  it  as  it  goes. 

And  O,  when  follies  all  have  fled 
And  solemn  thoughts  shall  rise, 

To  soothe  me  on  my  dying  bed 
And  meet  me  in  the  skies. 


132  QUI   TRANSTULIT   SUSTINET. 

Such  thoughts  are  vain,  too  vain  — yet  why 
Should  you  such  thoughts  reprove  — 

O  pity,  pity  me,  for  I 

Am  poor,  and  cannot  love. 


QUI   TRANSTULIT   SUSTINET.* 

THE  warrior  may  twine  round  his  temples  the  leaves 

Of  the  Laurel  that  Victory  throws  him  ; 
The  Lover  may  smile  as  he  joyously  weaves 

The  Myrtle  that  beauty  bestows  him. 
The  Poet  may  gather  his  ivy,  and  gaze 

On  its  evergreen  honors  enchanted  ; 
But  what  are  their  ivys,  their  myrtles,  and  bays, 

To  the  vine  that  our  forefathers  planted. 

Let  France  boast  the  lily  —  let  Britain  be  vain 

Of  her  thistles,  and  shamrocks,  and  roses  ; 
Our  shrubs  and  our  blossoms  sprout  out  from  the  main, 

And  our  bold  shore  their  beauty  discloses. 
With  a  home  and  a  country,  a  soul  and  a  God, 

What  freeman  with  terrors  is  haunted, 
Bedecked  with  the  dewdrops  and  washed  with  the  flood 

Is  the  vine  that  our  forefathers  planted. 

*  Motto  of  the  Arms  of  Connecticut. 


DIRGE.  133 

Then  a  health  to  the  brave,  and  the  worthy,  that  bore 

The  vine  whose  rich  clusters  o'ershade  us  ; 
They  planted  its  root  by  the  rocks  of  the  shore, 

And  called  down  His  blessing  who  made  us. 
—  And  a  health  to  the  Fair  who  will  raise  up  a  brave 

Generation  of  Yankees  undaunted, 
To  nourish,  to  cherish,  to  honor,  and  save 

The  vine  that  our  forefathers  planted. 


DIRGE. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ADAMS  AND  JEFFERSON.* 


TOLL  not  the  bell,  and  muffle  not 
The  drum,  nor  fire  the  funeral  shot ; 
Nor  half  way  hoist  our  banner  now  — 
Nor  weed  the  arm,  nor  cloud  the  brow, — 
But  high  to  heaven  be  raised  the  eye, 
And  holy  be  the  rapturous  sigh : 
And  still  be  cannon,  drum,  and  bell, 
Nor  let  the  flag  of  sorrow  tell. 

Now  low  are  laid  their  honored  forms, 
But  from  the  clods,  and  dust,  and  worms, 

*  Attempted  to  the  tune  of  "  Roslin  Castle." 


134  TO  A  LADY  FOR  A  NOSEGAY. 

Their  spirits  wake,  and,  breathing,  rise 
Above  the  sun's  own  glorious  skies. 
And  happy  be  their  airy  track  — 
We  may  not,  would  not,  call  them  back  ;  — 
For  patriot  hands  may  clasp  with  theirs, 
And  Angel  harps  may  hymn  their  prayers. 


TO  A  LADY  FOR  A  NOSEGAY. 


—  "  Plenis  manibus,  ferle  lilia,  ferte." 

WHO  does  not  love  a  flower? 
Its  hues  are  taken  from  the  light, 
Which  summer's  sun  flings  pure  and  bright, 
In  scattered  and  prismatic  hues, 
That  shine  and  smile  in  dropping  dews ; 
Its  fragrance  from  the  sweetest  air, 
Its  form  from  all  that  's  light  and  fair  ;  — 

Who  does  not  love  a  flower  ? 

A  lesson  to  the  giver. 
Not  in  the  streets  to  bloom  and  shine, 
Not  in  the  rout  of  noise  and  wine, 
Not  trampled  by  the  rushing  crowd. 


STIFLED   WITH  SWEETS.  135 

Not  in  paved  streets  and  cities  proud  — 
From  danger  safe,  from  blighting  free, 
Pure,  simple,  artless,  let  it  be 
An  emblem  of  the  giver. 


"STIFLED   WITH   SWEETS.' 


WAS  I  not  served  in  open  day 

With  buds  and  flowers !  —  and  whence  came  they  ? 
In  the  still  night,  as  poets  tell, 
Queen  Mab  rings  out  her  little  bell, 
And  sends  her  sylphs  on  moonlight  beams, 
To  weave  our  happy,  youthful  dreams, 
( — Ere  morning  crimsons  for  the  day 
That  comes  to  chase  them  all  away  • — ) 
To  whisper  in  the  slumberer's  ear, 
Thoughts  full  of  young  and  buoyant  cheer; 
To  put  such  nectar  to  the  lip 
As  waking  mortals  never  sip  — 
To  place  a  rosebud  on  each  eye, 
To  purify  the  sleeper's  sigh, 
And  best  of  all,  beside  his  couch 
Leave  on  his  cheek  a  Fairy's  touch. 

But  who,  in  honest  open  day, 

Sends  buds  and  flowers  —  and  whence  come  they  ? 


136 


A   RAINY   DAY. 


IT  rains.     What  lady  loves  a  rainy  day  ? 
Not  she  who  puts  prunella  on  her  foot, 
Zephyrs  around  her  neck,  and  silken  socks 
Upon  a  graceful  ancle  —  nor  yet  she 
Who  sports  her  tasselled  parasol  along 
The  walks,  beau-crowded  on  some  sunny  noon, 
Or  trips  in  muslin,  in  a  winter's  night 
On  a  cold  sleigh -ride  —  to  a  distant  ball. 
She  loves  a  rainy  day  who  sweeps  the  hearth, 
And  threads  the  busy  needle,  or  applies 
The  scissors  to  the  torn  or  threadbare  sleeve  ; 
Who  blesses  God  that  she  has  friends  and  home  ; 
Who,  in  the  pelting  of  the  storm,  will  think 
Of  some  poor  neighbour  that  she  can  befriend  ; 
Who  trims  the  lamp  at  night  and  reads  aloud, 
To  a  young  brother,  tales  he  loves  to  hear ; 
Or  ventures  cheerfully  abroad,  to  watch 
The  bedside  of  some  sick  and  suffering  friend,  — 
Administering  that  best  of  medicine, 
Kindness,  and  tender  care,  and  cheering  hope  ; 
—  Such  are  not  sad,  e'en  on  a  rainy  day. 


137 


SONNET. 
TO 


—  SHE  was  a  lovely  one  —  her  shape  was  light 

And  delicately  flexible  ;  her  eye 
Might  have  been  black,  or  blue,  —  but  it  was  bright, 

Though  beaming  not  on  every  passer-by  ; 

'T  was  very  modest,  and  a  little  shy. 
The  eyelash  seemed  to  shade  the  very  cheek ; 

That  had  the  color  of  a  sunset  sky, 
Not  rosy  —  but  a  soft  and  heavenly  streak 
For  which  the  arm  might  strike  —  the  heart  might 
break  — 

And  a  soft  gentle  voice,  that  kindly  sweet 
Accosted  one  she  chanced  to  overtake, 

While  walking  slowly  on  iambic  feet, 
In  tones  that  fell  as  soft  as  heaven's  own  dew  — 
Who  was  it !  dear  young  Lady,  was  it  you  ? 


133 


TO   THE   MOON. 


;O.  thou."— CLAUD  HALCRO. 


BLESS  thy  bright  face  !  though  often  blessed  before 

By  raving  maniac  and  by  pensive  fool ; 

One  would  say  something  more  —  but  who  as  yet, 

When  looking  at  thee  in  the  deep  blue  sky, 

Could  tell  the  poorest  thought  that  struck  his  heart  ? 

Yet  all  have  tried,  and  all  have  tried  in  vain. 

At  thee,  poor  planet,  is  the  first  attempt 

That  the  young  rhymster  ventures.     And  the  sigh 

The  boyish  lover  heaves,  is  at  the  Moon. 

Bards,  who  —  ere  Milton  sung  or  Shakspeare  played 

The  dirge  of  sorrow,  or  the  song  of  love, 

Bards,  who  had  higher  soared  than  Fesole, 

Knew  better  of  the  Moon.     'T  was  there  they  found 

Vain  thoughts,  lost  hopes,  and  fancy's  happy  dreams. 

And  all  sweet  sounds,  such  as  have  fled  afar 

From  waking  discords,  and  from  daylight  jars. 

There  Ariosto  puts  the  widow's  weeds 

When  she,  new  wedded,  smiles  abroad  again, 

And  there  the  sad  maid's  innocence  —  't  is  there 


THE  GRAVE-YARD.  139 

That  broken  vows  and  empty  promises, 

All  good  intentions,  with  no  answering  deed 

To  anchor  them  on  the  substantial  earth, 

Are  shrewdly  packed.  —  And  could  he  think  that  thou, 

So  bright,  so  pure  of  aspect,  so  serene, 

Art  the  mere  storehouse  of  our  faults  and  crimes  ? 

I  'd  rather  think  as  puling  rhymsters  think, 

Or  love-sick  maidens  fancy  —  Yea,  prefer 

The  dairy  notion  that  thou  art  but  cheese, 

Green  cheese  —  than  thus  misdoubt  thy  honest  face. 


THE    GRAVE-YARD. 


'T  is  morning  on  the  sunny  sod, 
Where  lingering  footsteps  late  have  trod ; 
'T  is  morning  on  the  melting  snow, 
That  shrouds  the  graves  of  those  below  ; 
'T  is  morning  to  each  sprouting  thing, 
That  greenly  smiles  because  't  is  spring  ; 
'T  is  morning  on  the  marble  stones, 
That  designate  their  owners'  bones  ; 
'T  is  morning  to  the  young  and  fair, 
That  walk,  and  laugh,  and  loiter  there 
Above  let  spring  in  brightness  glow, 
A  brighter  morning  smiles  below. 


140  THE   SEA-BIRD'S   SONG. 

There  is  a  beam,  that  breaks  upon 
The  lone  forsaken  buried  one  ; 
And,  clearer  than  that  dawning  ray, 
Which  gives  the  first  sweet  light  of  day, 
Sheds  on  the  Christian's  soul  a  light 
To  which  the  noonday  sun  is  night ; 
And  shows  the  path  his  Saviour  trod, 
When,  rising,  he  returned  to  God. 


THE   SEA-BIRD'S   SONG. 


ON  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  danger, 

On  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  death  ; 
Who,  to  fear  of  the  tempest  a  stranger, 
Sees  the  last  bubble  burst  of  his  breath  ? 
'T  is  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

Lone  looker  on  despair  ; 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 
The  only  witness  there. 

Who  watches  their  course,  who  so  mildly 
Careen  to  the  kiss  of  the  breeze  ? 

Who  lists  to  their  shrieks,  who  so  wildly 
Are  clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  seas  ? 
'T  is  the  sea-bird,  &c. 


STANZAS.  141 

Who  hovers  on  high  o'er  the  lover, 
And  her  who  has  clung  to  his  neck  ? 

Whose  wing  is  the  wing  that  can  cover, 
With  its  shadow,  the  foundering  wreck  ? 
'T  is  the  sea-bird,  &c. 

My  eye  in  the  light  of  the  billow, 
My  wing  on  the  wake  of  the  wave  ; 

I  shall  take  to  my  breast  for  a  pillow, 
The  shroud  of  the  fair  and  the  brave. 
1  'm  a  sea-bird,  &c. 

My  foot  on  the  iceberg  has  lighted, 

When  hoarse  the  wild  winds  veer  about ; 
My  eye,  when  the  bark  is  benighted, 
Sees  the  lamp  of  the  Light-House  go  out. 
I  'm  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

Lone  looker  on  despair  ; 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 
The  only  witness  there. 


STANZAS. 


ON  the  lake  of  young  life  is  a  fairy  boat, 
Like  the  sweet  new  moon  in  a  summer  sky ; 


142  STANZAS. 

Through  a  calm  of  brightness  it  seems  to  float, 
And  in  light  and  beauty  its  course  to  ply. 
As  sudden  as  a  cricket's  spring 

Its  feathery  paddles  dip  the  seas, 
As  gayly  as  the  hum-bird's  wing 

Its  sails  arrest  the  scented  breeze ; 
And  pennons  bright  and  streamers  gay 
Flutter  above  the  diamond  spray, 
As  the  keel  cuts  its  wimpling  way. 

A  little  boy  —  they  call  him  Love  — 

With  dimpled  cheek  and  sunny  brow, 
And  pinions  like  a  nestling  dove, 

Sits  laughing  on  the  fairy  prow. 
And  one  as  rosy  bright  as  he, 

Bearing  his  torch  of  purest  light, 
With  more  of  joy  and  less  of  glee, 

Trims  the  gay  bark,  and  shapes  aright 
The  course,  as  they  distance  to  weather  and  lee 
The  scud  of  the  sky,  and  the  foam  of  the  sea. 

Two  forms  are  their  lading,  two  hearts  are  their  care, 
And  precious  the  charge  that  they  joy  to  convey  ; 
The  young  and  the  happy,  the  brave  and  the  fair, 
Have  sped  on  their  journey,  how  blithely  away  ! 
But  as  the  moon,  which  shone  but  now 

A  silver  streak  of  heavenly  light, 
With  added  glory  on  her  brow 


STANZAS.  143 

Now  nobly  walks  the  queen  of  night  — 
And  firmly  moves,  though  clouds  arise, 
By  storm  and  tempest  fiercely  driven, 
Shrouding  the  blue  and  starry  skies, 

And  darkening  all  the  lights  of  heaven  — 
Thus  sped  the  boat ;  each  wale  became 
Of  strong  and  more  enduring  frame, 
And  sternly  to  the  sweeping  blast 
Stood  out  the  tall  and  gallant  mast. 

That  boy  has  strength  and  courage  high, 

And  manhood  lights  with  thought  his  eye  ; 

And  he,  the  pilot,  sits  demure 

In  dignity,  serene,  secure. 

Yes,  all  have  left  their  brightness  now, 

A  brighter  hope  is  on  each  brow  ; 

No  fancied  chart,  of  fairy  bays 

And  elfin  isles,  direct  their  ways  — 

A  heavenly  guide  sits  kindly  there, 

Directing  the  course  of  the  brave  and  the  fair ; 

In  yon  blessed  place  be  their  anchor  cast, 

And  holy  the  haven  they  find  at  last. 


144 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  HARTFORD  COUNTY 
AGRICULTURAL  SOCIETY.   1826. 


To  Thee,  O  God,  the  Shepherd  Kings 

Their  earliest  homage  paid, 
And  wafted  upon  angel  wings 

Their  worship  was  conveyed. 

And  they  who  "  watched  their  flocks  by  night," 

Were  first  to  learn  thy  grace,  — 
Were  first  to  seek  by  dawning  light, 

Their  Saviour's  dwelling-place. 

The  hills  and  vales,  the  woods  and  streams, 
The  fruits  arid  flowers  are  thine  ; 

Where'er  the  sun  can  send  its  beams, 
Or  the  mild  moon  can  shine. 

By  Thee,  the  Spring  puts  forth  its  leaves, 

By  Thee,  comes  down  the  rain, 
By  Thee,  the  yellow  harvest  sheaves 

Stand  ripening  on  the  plain. 


STANZAS.  145 

When  Winter  comes  in  storm  and  wrath, 

Thy  soothing  voice  is  heard ; 
As  round  the  Farmer's  peaceful  hearth 

Is  read  Thy  holy  word. 

Thus  are  we  fostered  by  Thy  care, 

Supported  by  Thy  hand ; 
Our  heritage  is  rich  and  fair, 

And  this  Thy  chosen  land. 

Be  Joseph  yet  a  fruitful  vine,* 

Whose  branches  leap  the  wall, 
Make  Thou  its  clusters  ever  Thine, 

Jehovah,  God  of  all. 


STANZAS. 


MY  hopes  were  as  bright  as  the  bow,  when  the  storm 

Is  rolling  away  before  it, 
And  Love  painted  on  them  so  bright  a  form 

That  not  a  cloud  came  o'er  it 


*  Genesis  xlix. 


146  STANZAS. 

The  bow  has  gone,  and  the  night  come  on, 

And  all  is  dark  and  dreary  ; 
Love  has  departed,  and  hope  has  flown 

To  the  silent  grave  of  Mary. 

My  thoughts  were  as  playful  as  billows,  that  kiss 
The  rocks  and  the  sands  of  the  shore  ; 

And  fancy  would  whisper,  like  them,  of  a  bliss 
Such  as  mortal  ne'er  met  before. 

But  the  billows  are  lost  in  a  whelming  wave, 

Whose  voice  shall  be  never  weary  ; 
And  Fancy  has  withered,  like  weeds  on  the  grave 

Of  my  loved,  my  ruined  Mary. 

There  was  joy  in  her  cheek,  there  was  love  in  her  eye, 

And  innocence  played  around  her ; 
But  her  laugh  of  mirth  was  changed  to  a  sigh 

When  the  toils  of  deception  bound  her. 

Now  dead  is  he  that  beguiled  my  love, 

And  she  that  I  loved  so  dearly  ; 
And  I  shall  join,  in  the  heaven  above, 

My  bright,  angelic  Mary. 


147 


TO  A  CHILD,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  FRIEND. 


I  PRAT  thee  by  thy  mother's  face, 

And  by  her  look,  and  by  her  eye, 
By  every  decent  matron  grace 
That  hovered  round  the  resting-place 

Where  thy  young  head  did  lie  ; 
And  by  the  voice  that  soothed  thine  ear, 
The  hymn,  the  smile,  the  sigh,  the  tear 

That  matched  thy  changeful  mood  ; 
By  every  prayer  thy  mother  taught  — 
By  every  blessing  that  she  sought, 

I  pray  thee  to  be  good. 

Is  not  the  nestling,  when  it  wakes 

Its  eye  upon  the  wood  around, 
And  on  its  new  fledged  pinions  takes 
Its  taste  of  leaves  and  boughs  and  brakes  — 

Of  motion,  sight,  and  sound  — 
Is  it  not  like  the  parent  ?     Then 
Be  like  thy  mother,  child,  and  when 

Thy  wing  is  bold  and  strong, 
As  pure  and  steady  be  thy  light  — 
As  high  and  heavenly  be  thy  flight  — 

As  holy  be  thy  song. 


143 


THE    INVALID 

ON    THE    EAST    END    OF    LONG    ISLAND. 


FEEBLE,  with  languid,  staff-supported  step, 

And  heavy  eye  and  heavier  heart,  I  tread 

The  sun-scorched  sand,  and  breathe  the  sultry  air 

That  hovers  on  the  road.     One  effort  more, 

One  mile  or  two  at  most,  and  then  I  stand 

Where  I  can  feel  the  balmy  breath  of  heaven. 

The  grassy  lane,  o'er-arched  with  boughs  and  leaves. 

Runs  its  green  vista  to  a  small  bright  point, 

And  that  point  is  the  ocean.     Faint  the  limbs, 

And  all  the  body  tires  —  but  for  the  soul, 

It  hath  its  holyday  in  such  a  spot. 

A  moment  rest  we  on  the  only  stone 

In  all  the  alley  —  wipe  the  sweating  brow, 

And  drop  the  eye  upon  the  turf  around. 

The  notes  of  birds  are  heard  in  other  groves, 
And  everywhere  are  welcome  ;  for  the  song 
Of  gladness  and  of  innocence  is  sweet 
To  all.    But  here  and  to  the  weary  too 


THE   INVALID.  149 

'T  is  exquisite :  for  with  it  comes  the  sound, 
Not  of  the  wind-fanned  leaves  and  rustling  boughs, 
And  wavy  tree-tops  only  —  but  the  voice 
Of  ocean. 

He  has  heard  its  mighty  sound 
Whose  bark  was  on  its  awful  waters,  when 
The  billows  swept  the  deck  and  rioted, 
Mixed  with  the  winds,  round  all  its  gallant  spars. 
He  too  has  heard  its  moanings,  who,  becalmed 
Lies  like  a  small  thing,  helpless  and  alone 
Upon  a  rolling,  waste  immensity. 
And  he  has  heard  another  tone,  who  marks 
Its  furious  dance  among  the  leeward  rocks, 
Where  he  must  bear  its  ravings  o'er  his  bones. 
But  in  this  calm  and  leafy  grove,  the  sound 
Is  smoother,  softer,  sweeter,  than  the  harp 
That  the  winds  love  to  play  on.     Let  us  rise 
And  view  the  Giant  that  can  tune  his  voice 
To  every  passion  — that  can  touch  each  chord 
That  vibrates  in  a  saint's  or  sinner's  heart. 
—  But  to  the  shore.    O  !  what  a  depth  of  wave, 
And  what  a  length  of  foam  !     That  solemn  voice  ! 
'T  is  louder  and  yet  sweeter  —  They  mistake 
Who  call  it  hoarse  —  They  never  on  the  white 
And  pebbly  beach  in  peace  and  quietness 
Have  heard  it  roar  —  or  watched  the  spray 
That,  venturing  furthest  on  the  smooth,  white  sand, 
Kisses,  retires,  and  comes  to  kiss  again. 


150  THE   INVALID. 

Upon  the  utmost  bound,  a  clear,  white  jet 
Of  water,  from  the  dark  green  wave,  betrays 
The  sporting  of  the  whale  ;  and  nearer  shore 
The  sea-birds  rise  upon  their  wetted  wings, 
And  bear  their  prey  far  to  their  lonely  nests. 

The  sun  sets  —  and  the  blushing  water  turns 

To  a  blue,  star-spread,  foam-tipped,  wavy  sea 

Of  beauty.    Yonder  sweeps  a  brave  white  sail, 

Bending  as  gracefully  in  evening's  breeze 

As  a  keen  skater  on  the  glassy  ice. 

And  now  —  even  as  some  hospitable  man 

Will  light  his  going  guest  into  the  path, 

And  bid  God  bless  him,  as  he  speeds  his  way 

Onward,  alone,  into  the  untried  dark, 

The  Lighthouse  —  last  of  friends  that  ship  may  see, 

Points  out  the  course,  till  far  beyond  its  beam 

The  sea  fire  of  the  ocean  only  shines. 

Away  —  from  all  that 's  bright,  and  beautiful ; 

From  the  fresh  breeze  and  from  the  glorious  view, 

From  all  that 's  lovely,  noble,  or  sublime, 

To  the  sick  pillow  and  the  feverish  bed. 

There  may  good  angels  watch  me,  and  good  thoughts 

Crowd  to  my  dreaming  and  my  waking  hours  ; 

For  the  whole  world  of  waters,  the  firm  land, 

The  canopy,  with  all  its  suns  and  stars, 

Its  bright,  unnumbered  systems,  all  are  His, 

And  He  is  everywhere. 


151 


HOW   TO   CATCH  A  BLACK-FISH. 


THOMSON,  the  poet  of  the  year,  has  sung 
And  melodized  the  cautious,  sylvan  art, 
To  lure  the  trout  from  underneath  the  root 
Of  some  old  oak,  or  tempt  him  from  his  rock 
Deep-shelving  far  beneath  the  grassy  bank, 
Where  all  is  always  shadow  —  to  the  stream 
That  sparkles  in  the  sunbeam.     Thence  the  hook 
Drags  him  in  speckled  beauty  to  the  shore. 

The  bard  of  Scotland  and  of  nature  sung 
For  this,  thy  praise,  sweet  Thomson  —  yea,  and  he 
Of  loftier  thought,  and  bolder  hand,  declared 
To  nymphs  and  swains  where  their  own  Druid  slept. 
But  who  shall  sing  his  praise,  who  tells  the  world 
The  way  to  catch  a  black-fish  ?     Praise,  't  is  said, 
Is  not  a  plant  of  mortal  soil  —  't  is  naught  — 
And  naughty  is  the  wish  to  cull  its  weeds. 

Begin  then,  Muse,  and  help  me  to  the  bait, 
That,  when  the  sea  retires,  will  shelter  close 
Beneath  the  sea-weed  side  of  rocks  and  stones  ; 


152  HOW  TO   CATCH  A  BLACK-FISH. 

And  gange,*  sweet  maid  of  Hellas  —  gange  my  hook 

So  that,  nor  steady  pull  may  draw  it  off, 

Nor  cumbrous  thread  betray  its  fell  design,  — 

Sit  on  the  bow,  fair  sister  to  the  eight 

Who  on  Parnassus  miss  thy  absence  strange, 

And  let  me  scull  to  where  the  young  flood  lifts 

The  rockweed,  as  the  morning  breeze  wakes  up 

The  daisy  that  the  lark  has  slept  beside. 

So  wakes  the  Black-fish,  and  with  lazy  fin 

Paddles  his  round  white  nose  in  curious  search 

For  meat  untoiled  for,  yet  expected  much. 

Beware  !     Thy  guardian  genius  with  her  wings 

Of  silkiness  — her  breath  of  sea-shell  air  — 

Her  voice  the  whispering  of  the  smallest  bubble 

That  rises  from  the  oozy  depths  around, 

All  give  thee  warning,  Touch  not !  —  'T  is  in  vain. 

The  subtle  bait  is  sought  for  greedily, 

And  swallowed  without  tasting  —  next  he  lies 

Panting  and  bleeding  by  the  fisher's  side. 

And  does  he  pause  to  moralize  ?  —  No,  no, 

He  baits  the  hook  to  tempt  another  on, 

And  feasts  upon  their  folly. 


*  A  term  well  known  among  fishermen ;  and  meaning  to 
knit,  or  by  any  other  mode  unite,  the  hook  with  the  line. 


153 


THE   STORM   OF  WAR. 


O  !  ONCE  was  felt  the  storm  of  war ! 

It  had  an  earthquake's  roar ; 
It  flashed  upon  the  mountain  height, 

And  smoked  along  the  shore. 

It  thundered  in  a  dreaming  ear, 

And  up  the  Farmer  sprang ; 
It  muttered  in  a  bold,  true  heart, 

And  a  warrior's  harness  rang. 

It  rumbled  by  a  widow's  door,  — 

All  but  her  hope  did  fail : 
It  trembled  through  a  leafy  grove, 

And  a  maiden's  cheek  was  pale. 
It  steps  upon  the  sleeping  sea, 

And  waves  around  it  howl ; 
It  strides  from  top  to  foaming  top, 

Out-frowning  ocean's  scowl. 

And  yonder  sailed  the  merchant  ship  — 
There  was  peace  upon  her  deck  ; 

—  Her  friendly  flag  from  the  mast  was  torn, 
And  the  waters  whelmed  the  wreck. 


THE    STORM   OF  WAR. 

But  the  same  blast  that  bore  her  down 

Filled  a  gallant  daring  sail, 
That  loved  the  might  of  the  black'ning  storm, 

And  laughed  in  the  roaring  gale. 

The  stream,  that  was  a  torrent  once, 

Is  rippled  to  a  brook, 
The  sword  is  broken,  and  the  spear 

Is  but  a  pruning  hook. 
The  mother  chides  her  truant  boy, 

And  keeps  him  well  from  harm ; 
While  in  the  grove  the  happy  maid 

Hangs  on  her  lover's  arm. 

Another  breeze  is  on  the  sea, 

Another  wave  is  there, 
And  floats  abroad  triumphantly, 

A  banner  bright  and  fair  ; 
And  peaceful  hands  and  happy  hearts, 

And  gallant  spirits  keep 
Each  star  that  decks  it  pure  and  bright, 

Above  the  rolling  deep. 


155 


THE    MONEY   DIGGERS. 


It  is  a  fact  that  two  men  from  Vermont  (July  llth,  1827) 
were  working  by  the  side  of  one  of  the  wharves  in  New  Lon 
don,  for  buried  money,  by  the  advice  and  recommendation  of 
an  old  woman  of  that  State,  who  assured  them,  that  she  could 
distinctly  see  a  box  of  dollars  packed  edge-wise.  The  locality 
was  pointed  out  to  an  inch,  and  her  only  way  of  discovering 
the  treasure  was  by  looking  through  a  stone,  which  to  ordin 
ary  optics  was  hardly  translucent.  For  the  story  of  the  Span 
ish  Galleon,  that  left  so  much  bullion  in  and  about  New 
London,  see  Trumbull's  History  of  Connecticut,  and  for  Kidd, 
inquire  of  the  oldest  lady  you  can  find. 


THUS  saith  The  Book  — "Permit  no  witch  to  live;" 
Hence,  Massachusetts  hath  expelled  the  race, — 
Connecticut,  where  swap  and  dicker  thrive, 
Admits  not  to  their  foot  a  resting-place. 
With  more  of  hardihood  and  less  of  grace, 
Vermont  receives  the  sisters  gray  and  lean, 
Allows  each  witch  her  airy  broomstick  race, 
O'er  mighty  rocks  and  mountains  dark  with  green, 
Where  tempests  wake  their  voice,  and  torrents  roar 
between. 


156  THE   MONEY  DIGGERS. 

And  one  there  was  among  that  wicked  crew, 
To  whom  the  enemy  a  pebble  gave, 
Through  which,  at  long-off  distance,  she  might  view 
All  treasures  of  the  fathomable  wave  ; 
And  where  the  Thames'  bright  billows  gently  lave, 
The  grass-grown  piles  that  flank  the  ruined  wharf, 
She  sent  them  forth,  those  two  adventurers  brave, 
Where  greasy  citizens  their  bev'rage  quaff, 
Jeering  at  enterprise  — >aye  ready  with  a  laugh. 

They  came  —  those  straight -haired,  honest  meaning 

men, 

Nor  question  asked  they,  nor  reply  did  make, 
Albeit  their  locks  were  lifted  like  as  when 
Young  Hamlet  saw  his  father.     And  the  shake 
Of  knocking  knees  and  jaws  that  seemed  to  break, 
Told  a  wild  tale  of  undertaking  bold, 
While  as  the  oyster-tongs  the  chiels  did  take 
Dim  grew  the  sight,  and  every  blood-drop  cold, 
As  knights  in  scarce  romaunt,  sung  by  the  bards  of  old. 

For  not  in  daylight  were  their  rites  performed  ; 
—  When  night-capped  heads  were  on  their  pillow 

laid, 

Sleep-freed  from  biting  care,  by  thought  unharmed, 
Snoring  ere  word  was  spoke,  or  prayer  was  said  — 
'T  was  then  the  mattock  and  the  busy  spade, 
The  pump,  the  bucket,  and  the  windlass  rope 
In  busy  silence  plied  the  mystic  trade, 


THE   MONEY  DIGGERS.  157 

While  resolution,  beckoned  on  by  hope, 
Did  sweat  and  agonize  the  sought-for  chest  to  ope. 

Beneath  the  wave,  the  iron  chest  is  hot, 
Deep  growls  are  heard  and  reddening  eyes  are  seen, 
Yet  of  the  Black  Dog  she  had  told  them  not, 
Nor  of  the  gray  wild-geese  with  eyes  of  green, 
That  screamed,  and  yelled,  and  hovered  close  be 
tween 

The  buried  gold  and  the  rapacious  hand. 
Here  should  she  be,  though  mountains  intervene, 
To  scatter,  with  her  crooked  witch-hazle  wand, 
The  wave-born  sprites,  that  keep  their  treasure  from 
the  land. 

She  cannot,  may  not  come,  the  rotten  wharf 
Of  mould'ring  planks  and  rusty  spikes  is  there, 
And  he  who  owned  a  quarter  or  a  half 
Is  disappointed,  and  the  witch  is  —  where? 
Vermont  still  harbours  her  —  go  seek  her  there, 
The  grandam  of  Joe  Strickland  —  find  her  nest, 
Where  summer  icicles  and  snowballs  are, 
Where  black  swans  paddle  and  where  petrils  rest  — 
Symmes  be  your  trusty  guide,  and  Robert  Kidd  your 
guest. 


158 


THE  GNOME  AND  THE  PADDOCK. 

WHAT  THE  GNOME  SAID  TO  THE  PADDOCK  IN  A 
BLASTED  ROCK.* 


I  AM  a  Gnome,  and  this  old  Granite  ledge 
My  home  and  habitation,  since  the  days 
When  the  big  floods  brake  up,  and  massy  rain 
Fell,  deluge  upon  deluge,  to  the  earth,  — 
When  lightning,  hot  and  hissing,  crinkled  by 
Each  scathed  and  thunder-blasted  twig  that  showed 
Its  leaf  above  the  waters.     Years  had  passed, 
And  centuries  too,  when  by  this  sheltered  side 
The  Indian  built  his  fire,  and  ate  his  samp, 
And  laid  him  down  —  how  quietly  —  beneath 
The  shadow  of  this  rock.     'T  was  great  to  him, 
And  in  a  weary  land.     For  yonder,  where 
The  school-boy  flies  his  kite,  and  little  girls 
Seek  four-leaved  clover  —  there  the  Buffalo 
Led  his  wild  herd.     There  once,  and  only  once, 
The  Mammoth  stalked.    Thou,  Paddock,  heard'st  his 
tread, 


*  A  Paddock  is  a  toad  that  lives  in  a  rock. 


THE  GNOME  AND  THE  PADDOCK.        159 

But  I,  —  I  saw  him.     By  this  very  rock  — 
This  little  ledge  he  passed.     Three  stately  steps ! 
And  every  rough  and  wooded  promontory 
Trembled. 

And  for  his  voice  —  't  was  musical, 
And  though  too  sonorous  for  human  ear, 
Yet  to  a  Gnome  't  was  wondrous  —  exquisite  ; 
For  every  vein  of  undiscovered  ore 
Rang  in  full  harmony  to  that  bold  tone. 
From  the  wild  surface  to  the  lowest  depth, 
And  through,  and  round  the  pillars  of  the  earth, 
Were  silver  streaks  and  golden  radiants 
That  trembled  through  their  courses,  when  a  note 
Congenial  waked  their  low,  sweet,  solemn  sound. 

But  hush  thee,  Paddock  !    Good-by  once  for  all  — 
There  comes  old  Burdick  with  an  iron  rod, 
And  near  him,  one  who  with  a  powder-flask 
Will  blow  us  both  sky-high.     Adieu,  sweet  vestal, 
And  when  I  meet  you  in  a  museum 
Do  not  forget  me  dearest ! 


160 


SONG. 


THE  rocks,  the  rocks,  among  the  rocks 

My  only  lover  lives  ; 
To  me  the  plain,  to  me  the  main, 

Nor  fear  nor  pleasure  gives. 

I  love  not  in  the  sunny  day 
To  weed  and  till  the  ground, 

While  my  wild  lover  far  away, 
Hunts  with  his  lazy  hound. 

Nor  would  I  be  a  sailor's  wife, 

Too  far  from  me  is  he  ; 
For  I  must  toil,  and  I  must  strive, 

While  he  is  on  the  sea. 

Give  me  a  lover  to  my  cheek, 

A  husband  to  my  arms, 
Nor  would  I  other  dowry  seek, 

Than  hills  and  rocky  farms. 


ON  THE  DEATH   OF  AN  OLD  TOWNSMAN.          161 

The  meadow's  calms,  the  ocean's  shocks, 

Each  ruins  or  deceives  ; 
The  rocks,  the  rocks,  among  the  rocks, 

My  only  lover  lives. 


ON  THE  DEATH   OF  AN  OLD   TOWNSMAN. 


YOUNG  he  left  thee,  poor  he  left  thee, 
Sad  he  left  thee,  Emerald  Isle  — 

When  oppression's  cloud  bereft  thee 
Of  thy  last  and  saddest  smile. 

Here  he  came,  but  Ireland  ever 

Warmed  his  heart  and  filled  his  thought 
Wandering  son  of  Erin  never 

Sought  his  hearth  and  found  it  not. 

Fast  by  Liffey's  lovely  borders, 
Broad  of  wave  and  darkly  deep, 

Fast  by  Leixlip's  leaping  waters, 
Parents,  friends,  and  kindred  sleep. 


Attempted  for  the  music  of  Rosseau's  "Dream.' 


162  STANZAS. 

Here  he  dwelt,  and  all  around  him 
Blest  his  warm  and  honest  heart  — 

Here  he  died  as  first  we  found  him, 
Free  from  guile  and  void  of  art. 

Touched  but  now  with  death's  cold  finger, 
Here  he  walks  with  us  no  more  — 

But  if  spirits  ever  linger, 

His  will  haunt  the  Liffey  shore. 


STANZAS. 


How  well  I  remember  the  paths  that  I  trod 
When  a  boy,  with  my  bait  and  my  light  little  rod  ; 
How  eager  I  went,  and  how  patient  I  stood, 

And  felt  not  a  bite  through  the  whole  afternoon ; 
Wet,  hungry,  and  tired,  how,  at  sundown,  I  came, 
The  leaf  it  was  green  and  the  verdure  the  same, 
But  returning  I  found  it  so  cold  and  so  tame, 

'T  was  December  to  me,  to  the  wood  it  was  June. 

I  had  dwelt  where  the  lovely,  the  young,  and  the  gay 
Shed  light  on  my  path  —  but  I  went  on  my  way, 
My  errand  was  fruitless,  and  tedious  my  stay. 


IS   IT  FANCY,   OR  IS  IT  FACT?  163 

And  saddened  I  turned  to  the  home  of  my  youth; 
Where  now  is  the  music,  the  life,  and  the  glee  — 
There  are  smiles,  there  are  dimples, — they  are  not 

for  me, 
And  my  faint,  sickening  spirit  too  plainly  can  see, 

How  warm  was  my  fancy,  how  cold  is  the  truth. 


IS  IT   FANCY,   OR  IS   IT   FACT?" 


No  more  will  I  love,  for  my  Mother  is  fled, 
My  Brother  is  gone  to  the  seas  for  his  bread, 
And  O,  my  poor  Father  by  whom  I  am  fed, 

How  cold  is  his  hand  when  I  take  it. 
He  has  cares,  he  has  sorrows,  and  wild  is  his  smile 
When  I  strive  all  his  harrowing  thoughts  to  beguile  ; 
I  gaze  on  his  anguish,  and  fancy  the  while 

That  his  heart  wants  but  little  to  break  it. 

No  more  will  I  love  —  for  my  lover  is  gone, 
At  noonday  the  grasshopper  sits  by  the  stone, 
And  at  twilight  the  whip-poor-will  utters  his  moan 

Where  deep  in  the  wood  he  is  buried. 
'T  was  there  that  he  wished  to  be  laid,  for 't  was  there 
That  truth  told  its  tale,  and  that  love  breathed  its 
prayer, 


164  ON   A  RAINBOW   AT   NIGHT. 

And  the  heart  taught  the  tongue  a  sad  promise  to 

swear 
That  he  and  his  love  should  be  married. 

He  's  wedded  to  dust,  and  I  'm  wedded  to  woe, 
My  Father's  distracted,  and  where  shall  I  go  — 
Should  I  follow  rny  mother  —  O  misery  —  no, 

I  am  not,  I  am  not  her  daughter. 
One  hope  I  can  cherish  —  one  form  I  can  seek, 
On  one  breast  I  can  sigh,  to  one  heart  I  can  speak, 
And  the  tear  I  next  shed  shall  fall  full  on  his  cheek— 

The  brother  that  ventured  the  water. 


ON   A    RAINBOW  AT  NIGHT. 


THE  bow  that  spans  the  storm  is  beautiful ; 
Yet  —  how  we  view  it!  from  our  very  cradle 
E'en  to  the  extreme  of  our  most  ripened  wisdom 
T  is  treated  as  a  toy.     Philosophers, 
With  bits  of  glass  and  one  small  beam  of  light, 
Make  mimic  rainbows  upon  college  walls, 
And  lecture  upon  raindrops  —  how  the  light 
Impinges,  is  refracted,  bent  and  formed, 
Ending  with  pious  hintings  to  the  class 
With  what  analogies  God's  light  is  sent  — 
How  mathematical  his  heavenly  bow  ! 


ON  A  RAINBOW  AT  NIGHT.  165 

—  The  painter  daubs  it  on  his  varnished  cloth, 
And  with  gamboge  and  verdigris,  makes  out 
A  tolerable  rainbow  —  to  be  viewed, 
Admired,  and  bought  by  folly's  connoisseurs. 

—  As  silly  as  the  rest,  the  mother  lifts 

Her  squalling  child,  whom  rattle  will  not  please, 
Nor  pap,  nor  coral  with  its  silver  bells, 
To  look  upon  the  rainbow.  —  But  too  gross 
Such  gaze  —  and,  folding  up  its  heavenly  robes, 
"  Like  as  a  garment,"  on  the  meteor  rolls. 

"The  Heavens  shall  pass  away,  as  doth  a  scroll" — 
Like  as  a  scroll  they  stand.     O  !  who  that  marked 
That  page  of  Heaven's  bright  book  —  when  a  new 

light 

Was  broad  upon  his  vision  —  (when  the  world 
Turned  from  the  sun,  and  the  sun's  worldly  day) 
But  thought— all  else  forgot  — but  thought  on  Thee  ; 
Nor  painted  —nor  philosophized  —  nor  smiled. 

The  sun  is  of  our  system,  but  the  stars 
Are  set  in  Heaven.     The  day  is  made  for  man. 

—  At  such  a  time  —  with  such  a  gloried  sky, 
Even  man  feels  that  the  night  is  made  for  God. 


166 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  THE  NAVY,  SICK  AT  HOME. 


THE  wave,  the  wave,  the  Yankee  wave 

That  dances  white  and  blue, 
That  roars  in  might,  or  laughs  outright, 

Or  smiles  and  whispers  too, 
It  is  the  same,  whence'er  it  came, 

And  wheresoe'er  it  go,  — 
In  piping  gale  or  plaintive  wail, 

In  triumph  or  in  woe. 

You  've  seen  it  on  mid-ocean's  surge 

When  war  called  up  its  wrath, 
Yelling  the  fated  foeman's  dirge, 

And  howling  round  his  path,  — 
You  've  seen  it  on  the  playful  shore, 

Its  cheek  upon  the  sand, 
When  winds  were  still  and  storms  were  o'er, 

Kissing  the  quiet  land. 

By  every  promontory's  sweep, 

By  every  little  bay, 
By  every  shore  and  every  steep 

Where  the  smooth  eddies  play,  — 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  THE  NAVY,   SICK  AT  HOME.     167 

Where'er  the  silver  minim's  fin 

Scoops  out  his  tiny  cave, 
To  paddle  or  to  ponder  in, 

You  've  seen  the  Yankee  wave. 

How  gayly  did  it  once  bear  up 

Your  little  shingle  boat, 
And,  when  a  bigger  boy,  on  it 

Your  skiff  you  first  did  float ; 
And  since,  upon  the  broadest  deck 

That  ever  swam  the  seas, 
You  've  raised  a  penon,  proudest  yet 

That  ever  flapped  the  breeze. 

Soon  may  you  leave  your  fevered  bed, 

As  one  who  quits  a  wreck, 
And  show  once  more  a 's  head 

Upon  a  quarter-deck,  — • 
Yes !  leave  your  home,  for  ocean's  foam, 

And  join  your  comrades  brave, 
For  well  I  know,  of  all  below, 

You  love  the  Yankee  wave. 


163 


THE   SMACK   RACE. 


ARE  they  not  beautiful  ?  how  light  they  float, 
How  gracefully  they  sit  upon  the  wave ! 

The  water  buoys  no  surer,  fleeter  boat, 

None  that  will  Ocean's  danger  better  brave. 
Forget  not  too,  that  sea-washed  barrens  gave 

A  hardy  race  to  man  each  brace  and  line, 

Warm  hearted  and  hard  handed  —  all  they  crave 
Is  but  to  seek  and  search  the  boist'rous  brine 

Where  winters  have  no  sun,  and  north  lights  dimly 
shine. 

Thames  !  on  thy  smiling  harbour  now 
How  dips  and  bends  each  lively  bow, 

As  pleased  to  wanton  there. 
And  need  they  longer  there  to  ride  ? 
The  time  is  come  and  fair  the  tide, 

The  wind  is  fresh  and  fair. 

Away  !  the  peak  is  trimly  set, 
The  jib  with  schoot-horn  duly  wet, 


THE   SMACK  RACE.  169 

The  trembling  helm  is  true, 
One  glass  of  grog,  one  signal  gun, 
Three  cheers  for  luck  and  one  for  fun,  — 

Which  is  the  happier  crew  ? 

Over  the  broad,  the  blue,  the  clear, 
The  noble  harbour,  on  they  steer 

By  every  well  known  spot. 
In  sailor's  heart,  in  sea-bird's  cry, 
In  pilot's  thought,  in  poet's  eye, 

When  are  such  scenes  forgot  ? 

I  love  them,  for  the  porpoise  plays 
In  all  their  bleached  and  pebbly  bays. 

And  every  haunt  explores ;  — 
I  love  them,  that  the  hardy  breeze 
Sweeps  daily  from  the  healthful  seas, 

Blessing  the  happy  shores. 


Now  taughter  brace  the  laboring  boom, 
Bring  the  lee  gunwale  to  the  foam 

And  haul  the  bonnet  flat : 
They  have  the  freshest  of  the  breeze  — 
They  have  the  widest  of  the  seas,  — 

"We  '11  beat 'em  for  all  that." 

See  !  the  wild  wind  bears  down  the  peak. 
And  shows  its  shear  the  garboard  streak, 


170  THE  FOOT. 

Loose  is  the  leeward  shroud  ; 
The  helm,  a-weather,  bears  her  round 
That  hard-sought,  hard  gained  racing  ground, 

So  elegantly  proud. 

And  now,  good  luck  my  honest  hearts, 
Well  do  you  bear  your  dangerous  parts, 

And  well  I  wish  you  all  : 
I  little  know  your  terms  of  skill, 
But  you  shall  have  my  right  good  will, 

Whatever  chance  befall. 

Good  wives  on  shore,  good  winds  at  sea, 
Fishing  enough  where'er  you  be, 

And  very  many  bites  ; 
Plenty  offish  and  children  too, 
Days  well  employed,  and  not  a  few 

Of  quiet,  happy  nights. 


THE  FOOT. 

"  Jog  TCOV  (TTw,  xai  TOV  xoOuov  xn'/.Od 

1  SING  the  Foot.     Let  every  Muse's  wing 
Arrange  its  quills  and  fan  the  classic  lay  - 


THE  FOOT.  171 

For  Phoebus  had  a  foot  —  and  Venus  blessed 
Had  more  than  that,  a  foot  and  ancle  too. 
Neptune,  as  Homer  sung,  could  cause  the  shades. 
And  woods,  and  mountains  tremble  with  his  step. 
Immortal  was  his  foot-fall.     Juno  bright, 
Stampted,   when  she  scolded  forth  in    Jove's  own 

court. 

'T  was  Hebe's  foot  that  bore  the  nectar  round, 
And  Jupiter's  great  toe  that  Mulciber 
Leaped  from  to  Lemnos.  —  But  enough  of  all 
This  heathen  lore  —  this  pantheon  exercise. 

What  when  the  drum  beats,  and  the  panting  ranks 
Are  joining,  closing,  moving  on  the  foe  — 
When  the  deep  whisper  speeds  along  the  line, 
And  all  must  "  do  or  die  "  —  what  onward  moves 
The  heart-pulse  and  the  nerve,  the  ready  hand, 
The  eye  determined,  and  the  kindling  soul ! 
What  urges  up  the  bayonet — what  mounts 
The  desperate  height,  the  ladder  and  the  breach, 
And  tramples  on  the  rended,  blood-stained  flag  ? 

What  firmest  paces  on  the  rampart  walk, 
Or  softest  trips  it  to  a  lady's  bower, 
Or  lightest  sports  it  in  the  fairy  dance, 
Or  what,  on  provocation,  first  applies 
Its  energies  to  kick  a  scamp  down  stairs  ? 


172  FORT   GRISWOLD,    SEPT.  6,   1731. 

O  swift  Achilles  of  the  tender  heel  — 
O  well-shod  Grecians  of  the  classic  boots,  — 
O  Infantry  of  poets,  to  whose  feet 
Nor  boot,  nor  shoe,  nor  stocking  e'er  belonged, 
O  Cinderilla  of  the  vitreous  sock  — 
O  Giant-killing  Jack  with  seven  leagued  strides, 
Assist  me  to  immortalize  the  foot. 


FORT   GRISWOLD,  SEPT.  6,  1781. 


WHAT  seek  ye  here  —  ye  desperate  band  ? 
Why  on  this  rough  and  rocky  land, 

With  sly  and  muffled  oar, — 
Why  in  this  red  and  bright  array 
Stealing  along  the  fisher's  bay 

Pull  ye  your  boats  to  shore  ? 

Day  broke  upon  that  gentlest  Sound 
Sequestered,  that  the  sea  has  found 

In  its  adventurous  roam, 
A  halcyon  surface  —  pure  and  deep, 
And  placid  as  an  Infant's  sleep 

Cradled  and  rocked  at  home. 

What  wakes  the  sleeper  ?     Harm  is  near  — 
That  strange  rough  whisper  in  his  ear, 


FORT  GRISWOLD,   SEPT.  6,    1781.  173 

It  is  a  murderer's  breath  ; 
A  thousand  bayonets  are  bright 
Beneath  the  blessed  morning's  light, 

Moving  to  blood  and  death. 

Land  ye  and  march  — but  bid  farewell 
To  this  lone  Sound,  its  coming  swell 

May  moan  when  none  can  save  ; 
Many  shall  go,  and  few  return. 
That  rock  shall  be  your  only  urn, 

That  sand  your  only  grave. 

Across  the  river's  placid  tide, 
With  steady  stroke  is  seen  to  glide 

A  little  vent'rous  boat : 
'T  was  like  the  cloud  Elijah  saw, 
Small  as  his  hand,  yet  soon  to  draw 

Its  quivered  lightnings  out. 

'T  was  like  that  cloud,  for  in  it  went 
A  heart  to  spend  and  to  be  spent 

Till  the  last  drop  was  shed ; 
'T  was  like  that  cloud,  it  had  a  hand 
That  o'er  its  loved,  its  native  land 

A  shadow  broad  has  spread. 

Ledyard  !  thy  morning  thought  was  brave, 
To  fight,  to  conquer,  and  to  save, 
Or  fearlessly  to  die  ; 


174  FORT   GUIS  WOLD,  SEPT.  6,  1781. 

Well  didst  thou  hold  that  feeling  true,  — 
Didst  well  that  purpose  bold  pursue 
Till  death  closed  down  thine  eye. 

I  dare  not  tell  in  these  poor  rhymes 
That  bloody  tale  of  butchering  times  — 

'T  is  too  well  known  to  all ; 
I  write  not  of  the  foeman's  path, 
I  write  not  of  the  battle's  wrath, 

But  of  the  Hero's  fall. 

He  sleeps  where  many  brave  men  sleep  — 
Near  Groton  heights  —  and  nibbling  sheep 

Their  grassy  graves  have  found; 
But  some,  they  are  a  few,  are  laid 
Beneath  a  little  swarded  glade 

On  Fisher's  Island  sound. 

The  Sound  is  peaceful  now,  as  when 
It  saw  that  armed  array  of  men  ; 

And  one  old  fisher  there 
Gave  me  this  tale  —  't  was  he  who  told 
The  rough,  the  headlong,  and  the  bold, 

How  their  rash  fight  should  fare. 

He  too  is  dead  ;  and  most  are  dead 
Who  stood  or  fell,  who  fought  or  fled 
On  that  September  day. 


I   KNOW   A  BROOK,  175 

Old  man!  thy  bones  are  gently  laid 
Close  by  yon  shattered  oak  tree's  shade, 
Beside  the  fisher's  bay. 


I  KNOW  A   BROOK. 


I  KNOW  a  brook  that  winds  its  way  along 
A  dull  and  stony  margin  —  dwarfish  trees 
And  barren  vegetation  mark  its  course. 
The  stern,  bold  grandeur  of  the  granite  rock 
Frowns  not  upon  it — and  the  smooth,  green  lawn 
Slopes  not  to  meet  it.     Nothing  there  is  seen 
Save  one  pure  limpid  spring,  perennial, 
That  oozes  from  the  rock  and  from  the  moss. 
There,  all  that  flourishes  of  bright  and  green 
Is  clustered,  there  the  freshest  of  the  grass 
Laves  in  the  welling  rill.     No  man  would  think 
In  such  a  cold  and  barren  spot,  to  find 
Any  thing  sweet,  or  pure,  or  beautiful ; 
But  yet,  I  say,  it  is  the  loveliest  gush 

-'T  is  so  sequestered,  and  so  arboured  o'er 
With  nature's  wildness  in  its  summer  glow  — 
The  loveliest  gush  that  ever  spouted  out 
Upon  my  wandering  path.   Through  mud  and  mire, 

O'er  many  a  bramble,  many  a  jagged  shoot 


176  THE   DROWNED   BOY. 

I  stumbled,  ere  I  found  it.    There  I  placed 
A  frail  memorial  — that,  when  again 
I  should  revisit  it,  the  thought  might  come 
Of  the  dull  tide  of  life,  and  that  pure  spring 
Which  he  who  drinks  of  never  shall  thirst  more. 


THE   DROWNED   BOY. 


SAD  was  the  lot,  sad  was  the  tale 

Of  him  who  lies  unconscious  here  ; 
His  locks  are  lifted  by  the  gale, 
No  mourner  comes  his  loss  to  wail, 
No  friend  to  wait  upon  his  bier. 

I  've  seen  him  in  some  lonely  hour 
Gazing  upon  the  bright  blue  sky, 
And  though  the  black'ning  cloud  might  lour, 
Careless  he  'd  view  the  coming  shower, 
Nor  heed  the  storm  that  muttered  by. 

Sad  did  he  seem  for  one  so  young, 

'T  was  in  a  bitter  mood  he  smiled, 
And  as  he  paced  the  path  along, 
He  had  a  strange  and  wayward  song, 
And  gestured  to  his  measure  wild. 


THE   WIDOWER.  177 

Whether  't  was  want  or  cruelty 

That  caused  his  mind  thus  wild  to  rove, 

Or  whether  to  his  boyish  eye, 

His  fancy  gave  the  madd'ning  joy, 
Of  ceaseless,  hopeless,  idle  love, 

I  know  not,  —  but  he  never  slept, 

Upon  a  quiet,  peaceful  bed  ; 
He  to  himself  his  vigils  kept, 
None  but  himself  for  him  has  wept, 

None  mourn  him  now  that  he  is  dead. 


THE    WIDOWER. 


O  DOTH  it  walk  —  that  spirit  bright  and  pure, 

And  may  it  disembodied,  ever  come 

Back  to  this  earth  ?    I  do  not,  dare  not  hope, 

A  reappearance  of  that  kindest  eye, 

Or  of  that  smoothest  cheek  or  sweetest  voice,  — 

But  can  she  see  my  tears,  when  I,  alone, 

Weep  by  her  grave?  and  may  she  leave  the  throng 

Where  angels  minister  and  saints  adore, 

To  visit  this  sad  earth  ! 

When,  as  the  nights 
Of  fireside  winter  gather  chilly  round, 


178  SATURDAY  NIGHT  AT  §EA. 

I  kiss  our  little  child,  and  lay  me  down 

Upon  a  widowed  pillow,  doth  she  leave 

Those  glorious,  holy,  heavenly  essences, 

Those  sacred  perfumes  round  the  throne  on  high, 

To  keep  a  watch  on  me  ?  and  upon  ours  ? 

—  Her  I  did  love,  and  I  was  loved  again,  — 

And  had  it  been  my  mortal  lot,  instead, 

I  would,  were  I  accepted,  ask  my  God, 

For  one  more  look  upon  my  wife  and  child. 


SATURDAY   NIGHT  AT  SEA. 


Tt  is  well  known,  that  naval  officers,  as  well  as  their  sea 
men,  appropriate  Saturday  night,  at  sea,  to  the  subject  of  their 
"  domestic  relations,"  over  a  glass  of  wine,  or  of  grog,  as  the 
case  may  be.  It  may  not  be  so  notorious,  that  their  female 
friends  drink  salt  water  in  celebration  of  this  nautical  vigil. 


A  MOTHER  stood  by  the  pebbled  shore, 

In  her  hand  she  held  a  bowl  — 
«  Now  I  '11  drink  a  draught  of  the  salted  seas 

That  broadly  to  me  roll !  — 
On  them  I  have  an  only  son, 

Can  he  forget  me  quite  ? 
O  !  if  his  week  away  has  run, 

He  '11  think  of  me  this  night. 


SATURDAY   NIGHT  AT  SEA.  179 

And  may  he  never  on  the  track 

Of  ocean  in  its  foam, 
Fail  to  look  gladly  —  kindly  back 

To  those  he  left  at  home. 
I  pledge  him  in  the  ocean  brine, 
Let  him  pledge  me  in  ruddy  wine." 

A  sister  stood  where  the  breakers  fall 

In  thunders,  on  the  beach, 
And  out  were  stretched  her  eager  arms, 

For  one  she  could  not  reach. 
"  I  '11  dip  my  hand,  my  foot,  my  lip, 

Into  the  foaming  white, 
For  sure  as  this  sand  the  sea  doth  sip 
He  '11  think  of  me  this  night. 
And  may  he  never,  on  the  deck, 

Or  on  the  giddy  mast, 
In  gale  or  battle,  storm  or  wreck, 

Forget  the  happy  past. 
I  pledge  him  in  the  ocean  brine, 
Let  him  pledge  me  in  ruddy  wine." 

A  wife  went  down  to  the  water's  brink, 

And  thither  a  goblet  brought ; 
«  Here  will  I  drink,  and  here  I  '11  think 

As  once  we  two  have  thought. 
We  've  romped  by  rock,  and  wood,  and  shore, 

When  moon  and  stars  were  bright, 


ISO  SATURDAY   NIGHT  AT   SEA. 

And  he,  where'er  the  tempests  roar, 
Will  think  on  me  this  night. 
And  may  he  ever,  ever  meet 

With  a  friend  as  true  and  kind, 
But  not  to  night  shall  he  forget 

The  wife  he  left  behind. 
I  sip  for  him  the  ocean  brine, 
He  '11  quaff  for  me  the  ruddy  wine. 

A  maid  came  down  with  a  hasty  foot' — 

"  My  lover  is  far  at  sea, 
But  I  '11  fill  my  cup,  and  I  '11  drink  it  out 

To  him  who  deserted  me. 
Nor  mother,  nor  sister,  nor  wife,  am  I, 

His  careless  heart  is  light  — 
And  he  will  neither  weep,  nor  sigh, 
Nor  think  of  me,  this  night ;  — 
He  will,  HE  WILL,  a  Sailor's  heart 

Is  true  as  it  is  brave, 
From  home  and  love  't  will  no  more  part 

Than  the  keel  will  quit  the  wave. 
I  pledge  thee,  Love,  in  ocean's  brine, 
Pledge  gayly  back  in  ruddy  wine." 


181 


EPISTLE  FROM   ONE   ABSENT  EDITOR  TO 
ANOTHER. 


SUBSCRIBERS  to  ye  !  J.  T.  B. 

Where'er  ye  flit,  where'er  ye  flee  — 
And  though  ye  '11  na  remember  me 

In  your  braw  lodgin, 
I  trust  ye  '11  ha'e  the  grace  to  see 

Friends  wi'out  dodgin. 

0  gin  I  were  in  stage  or  boat, 
Wi'  stuffed  valise  and  dapper  coat, 
How  blithely  wad  I  ride  or  float 

On  land  an'  water ; 
But  here  I  am,  na  worth  a  groat  — 
'T  is  nae  great  matter. 

1  hope,  dear  sir,  it  winna  vex  ye 
To  hear  I  borroiv  the  Galaxy, 
Wherein  ye  rave  at  sic  as  tax  ye 

Wi'  a  that  loss  — 

But  dinna  let  thae  things  perplex  ye, 
And  be  na  cross. 


182       FROM   ONE   ABSENT   EDITOR  TO   ANOTHER. 

1  ken  ye  're  crouse,  and  gi'e  sma'  glint 
At  rhyme,  when  there  's  nae  meaning  in  't, 
And  sae,  my  verse  I  weel  may  stint 

For  a'  you  read  on  't ; 
And  my  puir  muse  begins  to  hint 

There  's  little  need  on  't. 

I  only  meant  to  let  ye  ken 
That  I,  like  ither  absent  men, 
Have  not  been  busy  at  my  pen 

In  Hartford  City, 
But  only  scribbled  now  and  then  — 

«  The  mair  's  the  pity." 

I  greet  thee  frae  the  banks  and  braes 
That  saw  me  in  my  childish  days, 
Where  neither  sylphs  nor  pranking  fays 

Buttoned  my  jacket  ; 
The  nearest  /saw,  in  my  strays, 

Was  auld  Till  Becket. 

May  you,  by  Tiber's  favored  burn, 
Or  where  Potomac  sees  the  urn 
That  patriot-poets  stop  and  turn 

To  make  a  verse  on, 
Or  'mid  the  rigs  o'  Southern  corn, 

Meet  nae  worse  person.* 

*  In  a  note  to  one  of  Burns'  sweetest  songs,  "  The  Land 


AN   INVOCATION. 


O  DEATH  !  O  grave !  O  endless  world  beyond ! 

And  Thou,  the  Holy  One,  that  shuttest  up 

What  no  man  openeth,  —  that  openeth 

That  which  nor  man  —  nor  death  —  nor  the  filled  grave 

Can  ever  shut  ?    To  Thee,  how  reverend, 

How  humble,  and  how  pure  should  be  our  prayer. 

Forgive  us,  for  what  are  we  !    What  but  worms 

That  crawl,  and  bask,  and  shine — then  writhe  and  die* 

But  there  is  hope  in  Heaven.     I  hear  a  voice 

That  says  the  dead  are  blessed,  if  they  die 

In  Him  who  died  for  them.     That  whoso  lives 

Believing,  shall  not  die  eternally. 

—  So  may  we  live,  and  so  apply  our  hearts 

To  God's  true  wisdom  in  our  numbered  days, 


o'  the  Leal  "—  republished  in  the  Mirror  a  few  months  before 
the  above  was  written  —  Brainard  says7  —  "  It  may  show  what 
too  few  understand,  that  nobody  can  write  a  real  Scottish 
song  but  a  Scotchman.  Bad  spelling,  misapplied  provincial 
isms,  and  cockney  sensibility,  will  never  pass  as  the  produc 
tion  of  Allan  Cunningham  or  Robert  Burns." 


184  CHARITY. 

That  though  we  be  cut  down  even  as  the  flowers, 
And  though  we  flee  like  passing  shadows  by, 
Hereafter  we  may  bloom  again,  —  and  stand 
Where  all  that  blooms  shall  bloom  eternally, 
And  shadows,  like  the  bitter  thoughts  of  life, 
Can  never  flit  across  the  holy  path, 
Nor  darken  one  forgiving  smile  of  Heaven. 


CHARITY. 


SWEET  Charity  !  thou  of  the  kindest  voice, 
Of  lightest  hand,  of  softest  —  meekest  eye, 
And  gentlest  footstep,  making  but  the  noise 
Of  a  good  angel's  pinions  floating  by, 
Go  forth !  but  not  to  dwellings  where  the  sigh 
Of  poverty  and  wretchedness  is  heard, 
Not  to  the  hovel,  nor  the  human  sty, 
Where  conscience,  O  !  how  burningly,  is  seared, 
Where  Heaven  is  scarcely  known,  and  Hell  but  little 
feared. 

Sweet  spirit,  Go  not  there.    There  thou  hast  been. 
And  seen,  nor  pity,  nor  relief  bestowed 


CHARITY.  185 

By  woman's  eye,  nor  by  the  hand  of  men, 
On  them  who  bear  such  miserable  load  ; 
What  votary  hast  Thou,  at  their  abode  ? 
What  kind  heart  brings  its  tearful  off 'ring  there, 
And,  grieved  that 't  is  no  more,  lifts  up  to  God 
Its  humble,  earnest,  holy,  secret  prayer, 
Breathed  mid  the  low  and  vile,  in  winter's  midnight 
air  ? 

Go  to  the  rich,  the  gay,  and  the  secure, 
Bold  be  thy  step,  and  heavy  be  thy  hand, 
Knock  loud  and  long,  at  Fashion's  partial  door, 
And  swell  thy  voice  to  terror's  bold  command  ; 
And  he,  who  builds  upon  extortion's  sand, 
He,  of  the  purple  and  the  linen  fine, 
Owner  of  widow's  stock  and  orphan's  land, 
Shall  shuddering  turn  from  his  untasted  wine, 
And  feel,  that  to  do  well,  his  all  he  should  resign. 

Go  to  the  lovely,  not  in  sighing  smiles, 
At  which  the  thoughtless  fool  might  smiling  sigh, 
—  Scatter  her  freaks,  her  follies,  and  her  wiles, 
With  the  stern  beauty  of  religion's  eye  ; 
Teach  her  the  tear  of  grief —  of  shame  to  dry, 
To  drop  on  frailty  meek  compassion's  balm, 
To  do  aright  —  to  feel  aright  —  to  try 
Her  envious,  hateful  passions  first  to  calm ; 
Then  shed  upon  her  soul,  not  on  her  face  thy  charm. 


186  CHARITY. 

Go  to  yon  Pharisee  —  the  heartless  wretch, 
That  prates  of  holiness,  and  hunts  for  sin, 
For  faults  of  others  ever  on  the  stretch, 
All  gaze  without,  and  not  one  glance  within  ; 
And  worse,  much  worse,  not  one  kind  wish  to  win 
A  sinner  back  —  but  to  detect,  betray, 
And  punish.     Go  and  tell  him  to  begin 
Anew  —  and  point  him  to  salvation's  way, 
The  sermon  on  the  mount  to  us  poor  sons  of  clay. 

Touch  not  their  gold,  but  touch — Thou  canst — their 

heart, 

For  there  be  many,  who,  with  open  purse, 
Will  greet  thee  in  that  market-place,  their  mart 
Of  cold  hypocrisy,  or  something  worse  : 
Unkind  and  selfish — theirs  may  be  the  curse 
"  Thy  money  perish  with  thee"    Learn  thou  them, 
Sweet  Charity  !  their  kindness  to  disburse  — 
And  Self's  deep  deadly  current  strong  to  stem  ; 
A  sigh  shall  win  a  pearl  —  a  tear  a  diadem. 

How  blessed  are  thy  feet.     Thy  footsteps  stray 
From  open  paths,  and  seek  a  grass-grown  track 
Through  shades  impervious  to  the  gaze  of  day  ; 
Onward  flies  light,  a  form  that  turns  not  back 
At  sight  of  chasm,  or  torrent  never  slack  ; 


CHARITY. 


137 


Quiet  and  bold,  and  sure  the  errand  speeds. 

Nor  doth  the  kindly  deed  a  blessing  lack  — 

To  sorrow,  joy  —  to  anguish,  peace  succeeds, 

The  eye  no  longer  weeps,  the  heart  no  longer  bleeds. 


189 


ADDENDA. 


The  author,  in  revising  his  poems  for  the  first  edition,  made 
many  alterations  of  them  as  they  originally  appeared  in  the 
Mirror.  As  these  changes  may  interest  some  of  his  readers, 
a  few  —  the  most  important  of  them  —  follow;  and  to  render 
them  with  perspicuity,  the  revised,  with  the  original  readings 
are  given  —  the  latter  being  italicized. 


MATCHIT    MOODUS. 

Ere  a  star  can  ivink,  the  time,  and  the  place, 
And  the  seat,  — 

Ere  the  star  that  falls  can  run  its  race, 
The  seat  of  the  earthquake's  power. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    COMMODORE    PERRY. 

A  bolder  bard  may  choose  a  loftier  name,  — 

Another  hand  may  choose  another  theme, 
May  sing  of  Nelson. 


190  ADDENDA. 

THE    SHAD    SPIRIT. 

The  Shad  Spirit  holds  his  onward  course, 
With  the  flock  that  his  whistle  calls. 

With  the  flocks  which  his  whistle  calls. 

And  who  can  tell  him  the  fated  time,  — 
And  well  can  he  tell  the  fated  time 
To  undertake  his  task. 

Though  the  wind  is  light,  the  wave  is  white 
With  the  fleece  of  the  flock  that 's  near ; 

And  he  sweeps  on  high,  like  the  scud  of  the  sky,  — 

The  wind  is  light,  and  the  wave  is  white, 
With  the  fleece  of  the  flock  that 's  near ; 

Like  the  breath  of  the  breeze,  he  comes  over  the  seas, 
And  faithfully  leads  them  here. 

Then  carry  the  nets  to  the  river's  shore,  — 
So  carry  the  nets  to  the  nearest  shore, 
And  take  what  the  Shad  Spirit  brings. 

ON    THE    BIRTHDAY    OF    WASHINGTON. 

O  send  back  the  soul  that  can  stand  where  he  stood,  — 

O  send  back  a  form  that  shall  stand  as  he  stood, 
Unsubdued  by  the  tempest,  — • 


ADDENDA.  191 

LINES    SUGGESTED    BY   A    LATE    OCCURRENCE. 

And  from  a  mother's  silence  I  shall  learn,  — 

And  from  a  mother's  holiest  look,  shall  learn 
A  parents  thanks  to  God,  — 

And  shall  1  see  again 
The  look  of  kindness  as  when,  — 

O  !  I  shall  see  again 
That  same  kind  look  I  saw,  when  last  we  met. 

That  dark  stream  below  ! 
Like  time  it  knows  no  ebb,  till  it  has  ceased  to  flow. 

May  peace  be  in  its  ebb  —  there  's  ruin  in  its  flow. 

THE    GUERRILLA. 

And  at  its  front  we  '11  be  the  first, 
To  go  with  it  to  war. 

And  with  it  go  to  war. 

ON    THE    LOSS    OF    A    PIOUS    FRIEND. 

Hope  in  your  mountains,  and  hope  in  your  streams, 
Bow  lowly  to  them,  and,  — 

Bow  down  in  their  worship,  and  loudly  pray. 

THE    END. 


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